


A Truth Universally Acknowledged

by saltycvs



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Ice Skating, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Artist Victor, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, Eros Katsuki Yuuri, Everyone Is Gay, Historical Inaccuracy, Homophobic Language, Male Friendship, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painter Victor, Phichit Chulanont is a Little Shit, Pining, Racist Language, Sugar Daddy Victor Nikiforov, Thirsty Victor Nikiforov, Victor is Bored and Rich and Loves Katsuki Yuuri, aka canon, but not a lot, except still a little ice skating, this isn't a pride & prejudice rewrite i'm just trash, this some dorian gray type of shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-10-10 01:10:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10425900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltycvs/pseuds/saltycvs
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single artist in possession of a good fortune, must be in need of a muse.Yuuri Katsuki, under the name of Eros, is an exclusive dancer, performing for a high class audience. Phichit is his closest friend, making it a two-person act. He's young, desirable, but with the popularity of male dancers dwindling, he's struggling.Viktor Nikiforov has a huge inheritance on his name, a large estate, and too much time on his hands. Though a popular painter, he's struggling to find his muse again. That is, until he sees a man by the name of Eros dance. After introductions, Viktor finds that same spark that he hasn't felt in a long time has suddenly flared up again.ORThe self-indulgent, homoerotic victorian au nobody asked for and yet I'm here to deliver.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I've been planning this fic for a while now, and I'm glad that I can finally post the first chapter. Nothing for this is set in stone yet, but I have quite a few ideas. My other fic is still updating, and is going to be updated a lot faster than this one, but this is going to be on a much bigger scale.
> 
> Not ALL of this will be historically accurate, and I'm bending reality slightly for my benefit, but I'll try to keep the mood as best as I can.

“Ready to go?” Phichit whispers, taking the coat that Yuuri shrugs off, the one that had been keeping him warm that night.

Outside, it is freezing cold; the winter unforgiving. Everyone in the ballroom now, seated on their chairs, are wearing gloves and hats and various other warm garments, even though it’s significantly warmer inside. The chatter is raised, ladies and lords and others of the high class alike making pleasant small talk amongst themselves, though there aren’t too many of them in the sprawling hall. Yuuri is exclusivity, after all, not something for the open public.

“Ready enough,” he replies to his best friend, and colleague, before flashing a nervous smile.

The outfit that had been hid underneath the long coat was truly something, one of the more expensive ones from their collection. Both Yuuri and Phichit had worked on it painstakingly, stitching the different types of fabrics together and pricking their fingers countless times with needles. In the end, it had been worth it, because it looks gorgeous, like something professionals would wear.

They both met as paperboys, back in their childhood, selling popular titles on the street to earn a living. Phichit’s parents dead and Yuuri’s working hard, with barely enough time to tend to him and see his sister through some form of schooling, it is no wonder they found some similarities. Somehow, Phichit always ended up earning more (possibly because he was louder), but Yuuri could proudly say that yes, he made some rather convincing sales. They had both struck out a friendship, and soon both began to lodge together, moving from selling newspapers to stolen knick knacks.

It had been Phichit’s idea, really. Yuuri had hesitated to leave his mother and father, but in the end, it had been the best decision. One less mouth to feed was a blessing, and though they had both told Yuuri he could stay, his conscience didn’t let him. They’d write him every month, but once he and Phichit began to move, all contact was lost. He doesn’t know if they’re alive, still, but a small part of him hopes.

Phichit had been Yuuri’s first friend, first kiss and first business partner. They’d gone through all together and so, naturally, Phichit had caught Yuuri dancing one day and demanded him to spill about how Yuuri had liked to sneak into theatres as a child, and copy the actor’s moves in the musical pieces. He’s been ashamed, then, thinking Phichit would find him strange, and his passion ridiculous. But he hadn’t.

Yuuri walks out onto the little platform set up in the room, facing the small crowd gathered before him. He’s used to this now, but two bright spots of colour appear on his cheeks when the people gasp, staring at him in awe.

He’s not used to the attention though yes, he’s been doing this for a while, but it never seizes to be daunting. Anxiousness seeps into his veins and causes a slight jitter in his hands as he gets into position.

The lights from the chandelier catch the jewels sewn into his costume (glass, nothing special, but they’re as good as the real thing on stage), making them sparkle. The rest of the fabric clings tightly to Yuuri, and obviously, too. This is one of his only costumes that accentuates his curves so; every dip and curve of his body. It’s improper, vulgar, and he can tell that other’s think so too, from the slight titter raising from his audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome to the stage, _Eros_!” Phichit calls to the audience, loudly, always able to urge them into action. They all clap, loudly, the sound ringing in Yuuri’s ears.

Whereas Yuuri is quiet, subdued, and would’ve never succeeded as he’s had (especially with the declining popularity of male dancers) without Phichit, because Phichit is demanding with his presence. He’s kind, yes, overly so, and incredibly friendly, but somehow fills up more space than his body possibly could. He’s also taken an avid interest in the invention of photography, and pouts every time that Yuuri denies having his portrait taken.

Out of the corner of his eye, from where he holds his position, Yuuri can see Phichit moving to the grand piano, poising his fingers over it. Being a double act is a little hard, Yuuri will admit, but so far it has worked, and neither of them wants to change the arrangement.

The second the music starts playing, Yuuri begins to move.

Yuuri stops thinking when he dances, or, when he doesn’t, it’s never about the things that usually worry him, like how Phichit and him will pay this week’s lodging, or where he can buy more fabric for costumes; thread for the ones he’ll be fixing instead of replacing. Because, he knows, there’ll be a lot of money from this. But this is a one-off thing; something like this might not come up for months.

Yuuri jumps and hears an excited flutter of fans coming from the women in the audience. He pirouettes and performs a sequence of leaps and spins, all to the crowd’s delight.

When Yuuri dances, he feels alive. There’s something in the way his body feels, about how light he is on his feet. Nothing seems to matter except the next move, except weaving a story into his dance, becoming one with the music. Even though his technique is not perfect, not like some of the people in the audience have seen in the professional ballet, he has drive.

When the music comes to a stop, Yuuri finishes neatly, arms wrapped around his body in a final pose. Though the performance had been grueling, he’s barely flushed. He practices for much longer than this, and under worse conditions. Plus, his stamina is unbelievable, or so he’s been told before.

The small crowd erupts in applause, a couple of whistles coming from the back (which are glared down quite quickly; this is elite society) and shouts of ‘bravo’, 'amazing’, and a variety of other words Yuuri doesn’t catch. It’s always like this after a performance, his ears are ringing and there’s blood rushing to his face, he barely notices the commotion.

He leaves the makeshift stage, and Phichit is already there, offering him the coat that he gladly slips on to cover himself. Though his costume is made to catch attention on stage, it’s barely appropriate to wear anywhere else (except, perhaps, the bedroom, but just the thought makes Yuuri shake his head. He has no time for such fancies).

After the coat is on, a grinning Phichit is pushing the overwhelmed Yuuri out to the centre of the ballroom, where people are now mingling amongst themselves, discussing the performance and sipping from crystal champagne flutes. Everyone is dressed extravagantly, in long dresses sweeping the floor or dashing suits. It makes Yuuri wrap the coat all the tighter around him, hiding the form-fitting costume as well as he could.

A dazzling young woman approaches Yuuri, and he recognises her as the hostess, a lady with too much wealth to spare and a liking for all things unique. She’s tall in her heels, and leans down to pinch his cheek when she acknowledges him. There’s a man behind her, scowling at the gesture. Her name is Sara, and Yuuri is sure the man standing protectively over her must be her brother.

“How marvellous! I couldn’t have hoped for more. So _exotic_ , aren’t you?” She whispers giddily.

“Of course he is,” Phichit pipes up from behind Yuuri, who’s never been happier for his best friend, and his knack in taking initiative. “Worth every penny, I say, and more.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I’m sure we can settle our prices.” The woman laughs, before offering her arm to Yuuri, “Let me introduce you around! I’m sure everyone is interested to see your face close up, after such a performance.”

Yuuri doesn’t dare deny her, and slips his hand through the crook of the woman’s arm; blush high on his cheeks, looking behind wildly to make sure that Phichit is following.

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s very pretty, is he not?” Mila sighs, fluttering her eyes dreamily. Her red hair is pinned up high on her head, her dress a simple, though expensive cut.

“He is. Don’t you think so, Vitya?” Christophe is jesting, and blatantly so, wide grin only growing wider when Viktor shoots him a half-hearted glare, before bringing his eyes to the crowd again, following the Japanese dancer as he is chatted up by people, each time responding more politely than the last.

Viktor does think so. He thinks Eros is gorgeous. There’s something in him that makes Viktor want to see if he can capture the softness of that dark hair with his brush, or be able to give that pink pout justice with his paints. Viktor has had many beautiful subjects before, of course, but none of them compare to Eros. Some of them had been more attractive than the Japanese boy, by society standards, at least, but none of them had the same aura, the same spark. There’s something blooming in Viktor’s chest that he hasn’t felt in a while.

Though this isn’t the first time he’s seen Eros perform, this time it's different. This time he seems almost ethereal, different to where, a year or so ago, he used to be hesitant. Eros never fails to surprise.

“Viktor, he’s coming over!” Mila hisses, tugging on Viktor’s sleeve.

Viktor nearly spills his champagne, because Eros is coming over, led by Sara (who’s already smiling sweetly at Mila), in his coat covering the wondrous costume, his dark eyes wide, hair coming out of that carefully slicked back style. Viktor quickly checks himself, makes sure his waistcoat is on properly, that his gold cufflinks are both there. He even runs a hand through his hair, to Christophe’s amused delight.

“Mila, Christophe, Viktor!” Sara addresses them all, but Viktor’s eyes are only on Eros.

Eros stares back at Viktor, all wide eyes and a hesitant, polite smile. He’s different off the stage, where he’d been all forbidden desire, so sure and confident of his moves. Somehow, Eros is no longer fitting, and Viktor aches to know his real name.

“Good evening,” Eros replies, promptly, and Viktor is sure he’s going to faint, but covers the weightless feeling with a bright smile, instead.

“It is! Tell me, where did you learn to dance like _that_?” Perhaps Viktor is too enthusiastic for his status, because Mila giggles to his side, and Christophe coughs pointedly.

“Here and there, my lord. I’m simply a quick learner.” Eros mumbles, eyes slipping from Viktor’s face to the floor in front of them. His friend nods enthusiastically behind him.

“How modest,” Christophe purrs.

“Oh, Eros– this is Viktor Nikiforov, a real mystery, if you ask me, or anyone else, for that matter. He’s an artist, although he’s having a bit of a dry spell, isn’t that right?” Mila says, her arm already around Sara’s waist, their wide skirts brushing together.

Viktor hums.

Eros’ brown eyes widen, the friendly smile slipping into something apologetic. “Oh, I did not know. I am sure your paintings are beautiful, either way.”  Viktor nearly swoons. Eros, the epitome of high art, is _flattering_ him.

He resists visibly puffing up with pride. He wants to say that yes, some of his art is truly impressive, but nothing compared to the masterpiece in front of him, but doesn’t get the chance before Phichit pipes up.

“Eros knows all about creative drawbacks, don’t you? He almost refused to dance this piece, you know, said it wasn’t him.”

Viktor bites his tongue, he can’t imagine Eros refusing to dance to _this_ ; something that is so him. He seems like he’s born to be on stage, dancing with such purpose and sexual appeal.

Eros blushes, a pretty pink all over his cheeks, mumbling something to Phichit with an embarrassed expression. His friend throws a hand over his shoulder, laughing.

“Seems like we embarrassed the gentle maiden,” Phichit jokes, poking Eros’ side, who shoves him back none too gently.

“Maiden? He’s a _vixen_ ,” Chris says, lowly, while Viktor sends him a glare over his glass as Eros’ blush deepens.

It isn’t often that Viktor is rendered speechless. He always has something to say (not always the right thing, mind), but next to Eros… it’s hard. Eros makes Viktor almost self conscious, which is something entirely new to him, because Viktor knows he’s handsome. He knows he’s handsome and rich and thus, desirable.

“Christophe, don’t be so crude,” Mila laughs. Loudly, not like a lady should, and presses Sara close to her side.

Eros tugs at Phichit’s arm, and Phichit grins, bowing to the small group. “Excuse us, please. Our star is tired after today’s performance. Our times are free this whole month, though, so you know where to find us. Just so you know.”

“We’ll definitely call on you again, Eros. Tonight was beautiful.” Sara says, smiling kindly at him as Eros gives a small duck of his head and an endearing smile, before retreating through the crowd with Phichit.

Viktor watches him go, one light brow raised.

Christophe whistles lowly.

“I saw him first, Christophe, don’t even think about it,” Viktor warns, even as a smile spreads on his features.

“I wouldn’t dare! Besides, his friend is quite a darling, don’t you think?”

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuri’s almost falling asleep to the rocking of the carriage, his head pressed against the window. It’s late, perhaps two or three in the morning, and the rain hits hard against the glass. He feels boneless; his legs hurt. But it’s a good type of hurt; a _satisfied_ type.

“So what did you think of him? Handsome, isn’t he?” Phichit says brightly across the carriage.

Yuuri flickers his eyes open, before narrowing them at his best friend. They turn a corner, and he bangs his head against the window.

Now fully up, he rubs the temple he’d hit, sending a confused look at Phichit. “Who?”

“Viktor, of course! Come, you must’ve noticed the way he was looking you up and down. It was utterly indecent if you ask me.”

Yuuri flushes. That might’ve been true. Yuuri is used to these things, by now. Many find his dancing provocative, his outfits too sexual for a society like it is now, and think it’s an excuse to touch, or say things they would never under different circumstances. But Viktor (as he was introduced) didn’t do anything of that sort. In fact, the thought that he was staring made heat creep up Yuuri’s collar. He really is handsome, too much for his own good. He can have anyone he wants.

“I know that face! You do think so!” Phichit exclaims, hands coming over his heart as he pretends to swoon.

“I think no such thing.” Yuuri tries to grumble, but his smile gives him away immediately. It sends Phichit giggling, and soon he himself joins in, unable to resists Phichit’s infectious laugh.

“No, no, come on, you have to admit you found something in him. I saw you looking at him, too.”

Yuuri hesitates, his laughter dying off. “Maybe,” he admits, but before Phichit can release a victorious shout he’s been holding, Yuuri continues, “But it doesn’t mean anything. I’m sure he was just shocked to see something like that on stage. You know how rich men are, they don’t get to see such risqué things in public, and so are enamored whenever they do.”

“He doesn’t seem like that. Besides, he’s an artist, aren’t they meant to be, you know, susceptible of human feelings?” Phichit tilts his head, smile widening, “Ooh, Yuuri, I bet he wants to paint you, nake–”

“Phichit! That’s enough. You know it’s not right to say such things about him. He’s probably a perfect gentleman.”

“The ones who watch you dance never are.”

Yuuri has nothing to say back to that, because he knows it’s true. Perfect gentlemen go to the ballet or the theatre, with their friends or their wives at that time. Not small, exclusive parties. Yuuri realises that he doesn’t even know whether Viktor is married or not (probably is, considering his status, though he noticed no ring), or what he paints, or anything.

It’s foolish to think that someone like Viktor would look at Yuuri with anything more than a lustful stare here and there. In fact, they will probably never see each other again. Maybe Yuuri will be invited by Sara again, but its unlikely Viktor would be there once more. But then again, Yuuri hears that rich men have little to do other than attend parties or galas.

Shaking his head, he tells himself that it doesn’t matter. That Viktor isn’t the first one and certainly won’t be the last, so why is his gaze bothering Yuuri so?

The carriage jerks again, and that throws them both in to silence for the rest of the trip home.

 

* * *

 

 

When Yuuri wakes up, he groans, because he’s still in his costume, which is now sticking to him uncomfortably, his limbs had been spread at an uncomfortable angle, so now they’re sore, and on top of all of that his blanket had been unceremoniously tugged off.

“Time to get up, you lazy thing.” Phichit sing-songs right into Yuuri’s ear.

Once Yuuri raises his head, he sees his friend waving an envelope in his hand, a wide grin threatening to split his cheeks. “Yuuri, we’re rich! We’re rich! This is the best rake-in we’ve had in a long time. Oh, I hope she invited us again.”

Despite hating mornings, Yuuri finds himself smiling along, letting Phichit pull him to his feet despite being a tad dizzy, and spin him around the room.

“We can buy new fabric, or a camera. No, wait, we can get you that necklace you’ve been staring at last week. It’ll catch the light so nicely if you dance in it!”

Yuuri has to reach out and grasp Phichit’s shoulders to calm him down, because as appealing as all of that sounded, they needed to be careful about this. Neither of them knew how long it would be until Yuuri may perform again, or whether Sara would invite them back or not. “Let’s be responsible, and not make any plans yet, alright?”

“Of course, I’m sorry. I got ahead of myself,” Phichit sighs, taking Yuuri’s hands off his shoulders and squeezing them gently. “I’ll draw you a bath, how about that? You don’t look so peaky.”

At a second glance, Yuuri sees that Phichit is already dressed, brown waistcoat on and trousers pressed nicely. Yuuri looks down at himself, blushes, and then looks away. It’s like him to oversleep, yes, but he’s usually a lot more responsible after performances, and doesn’t simply pass out once his head hits the (rather flat) pillow.

He lets Phichit draw him a bath, carefully picking out what he’s going to wear for the day. It’s nothing special, so he settles for one of his favourite, but definitely more worn out, brown suits. He isn’t one for bright colours, not off the stage, at least, and so keeps it as less attention grabbing as possible.

Phichit calls for him when his bath is ready, getting out of the little adjoining room and flashing Yuuri a bright smile. “I’ll go down to the kitchens and see if they have anything left from breakfast,” he says, before disappearing from their shared rooms and down the stairs.

Yuuri takes his time stripping, making sure his costume is folded neatly, ready to be washed and hung out to dry once he has the time. When he sinks into the bath, he bites down on a groan, shifting and letting his muscles loosen. It’s good to wash away the sweat of the night before.

He submerged his head and washes his hair, freeing it of the gel he’d put in the night before, even if most of it had been sweated off. He scrubs himself clean with a washcloth and spends five minutes longer than necessary in the bath, just enjoying the water and letting himself relax.

Finally, it’s time to pull himself out. He’s already spent too much time asleep in the morning to waste the rest of it away in the bathtub. He dries himself off and dresses hurriedly, barely checking his reflection in the slightly grimy mirror before slipping on his round eyeglasses.

He’s barely done drying his hair and adjusting his waistcoat before there’s a knock at his and Phichit’s door. Expecting his friend, he opens it hurriedly, looking slightly confused when it’s their landlady.

“Someone’s here to see you, Mr Katsuki.” She doesn’t pronounce his name right, but she’s a pleasant enough lady, and never means him any harm, so Yuuri really doesn’t mind. When she steps aside, there’s a small boy behind her, holding out a letter.

The confused frown on Yuuri’s face deepens. Phichit already has their payment, and it is rarely that either of them gets letters, for they travel too often to make acquaintances. But, the boy is obviously holding the letter out to him, so Yuuri takes it, puzzled.

“From who?” He asks, voice probably betraying his surprise.

“A Nikiforov, sir,” the boy pipes up, and Yuuri notes that he’s still there. Tentatively, Yuuri reaches into his waistcoat pocket, finding a few loose coins there from last time he’d gone out, before passing them to the boy. The other salutes, before running off.

Yuuri quickly rips open the letter, caring little for propriety. There, written in loopy but seemingly rushed writing, is a message with an address attached.

_My dear Eros, I couldn’t help but be enchanted by your performance last night. Would you like to join me for lunch this afternoon? I have many things to ask you._

_Hoping to see you, Viktor Nikiforov._

Heat floods towards Yuuri’s face, and he quickly shuts the door, setting the paper on the table in the room, heart pounding. He’ll have to ask Phichit about this, because suddenly, he’s at a loss with what to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events before Yuuri's 'luncheon' and the beginning, where he is properly acquianted with a certain Viktor Nikiforov and not only overwhelmed by his wealth but his personality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually super satisfied with this chapter. I wrote half of it up on notes and accidentally deleted that, ending up having to rewrite half of it. It came out better than it originally did, and I'm happy about that. This is unbetaed, and posted with no regrets at 2:20 am on my birthday. So please excuse any mistakes!
> 
> In other news, both of them are thirsty and need to get their shit together.

When Phichit returns with a tray laden with bread and butter and two cups of tea (It’s not much, and Yuuri knows he’s missed out on the bacon and eggs he would’ve been able to get downstairs, which makes his stomach grumble), Yuuri shows him the letter.

The tray almost goes flying but, thankfully, Yuuri is fast enough to take it from Phichit’s hands and set it onto the small table they share as his best friend throws his arms up, grinning. “I told you, I told you, Yuuri! You never listen, do you? Let me see, come on, let me see!”

Smiling, Yuuri hands over the note, letting Phichit practically rip it out of his hands.

A low whistle slips past Phichit’s lips. “Pretty,” he states, narrowing his eyes, “Must have capable hands.”

Yuuri blushes at the implication of Phichit’s words. It’s a wonder, that he still becomes flustered at such things. You see all sorts of goings-on when you spend half your life out on the streets, and working as a male dancers exposes you to many of the same things. Yet, his friend speaking about someone unreachable, someone on a whole another level of existence like Viktor, in such a way makes him embarrassed.

Yuuri is about to reply, when he pauses. “Why are you sniffing it?” He asks, suspiciously.

“Dunno,” Phichit shrugs, “Maybe he dozed it with perfume, y'know? Like the ladies in the novels you so like to read do. Don’t think he has though, but he doesn’t really look like the type, does he?”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, before taking the note back. “So what do you think?” He asks.

“What do I think what?”

“Whether I should go. I mean… I don’t know what he wants to ask, and I never know what to say!”

Phichit gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offence. “I can’t believe you’re considering not going at all! Yuuri, this rich man is obviously smitten with you, I’d be running into his arms if I were you! Of course you’re going. I’m not letting you pass up this opportunity.” If Yuuri really, really doesn’t want to go, Phichit won’t force him. He’s a good friend, and knows his partner’s limits, but Yuuri had seen something in Viktor, too. It would be madness not to go.

Yuuri hesitates. Phichit is right, of course, as he usually is. An opportunity like this may never present itself again, and the note had been relatively harmless. Viktor sounded genuine, and lunch couldn’t hurt, right? Even if Yuuri doesn’t like it, Viktor is pleasant on the eyes, and he could excuse himself.

“Alright. I’ll go.” He says, though at length, while Phichit pumps his fist in the air with a shout.

After that, Yuuri eats as Phichit gulps down his tea.

They don’t discuss Viktor or the lunch any more, but mostly talk about casual things, like the errands they have to run and the newspaper that Phichit had brought up on the tray. Neither of them are really good at reading (though Yuuri enjoys it, despite it taking him a little while), and aren’t too interested in the local news, but it is what’s natural. Phichit rattles on about a new costume idea he has, and Yuuri listens as well as he can while shoving pieces of bread into his mouth. He’s starving after yesterday’s show, and can barely pay attention to anything other than the food in front of him.

“So what do you think?”

Yuuri blinks, flushing. “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

Phichit grins, crossing his arms over his chest. “Thinking about a certain Russian beauty, are you? No problem, I was only asking if you think we should add more jewels to your current costume. Maybe some red lining…”

He really hadn’t been thinking about Viktor, so he hopes Phichit’s teasing will stop after today, when he realises that Yuuri really hadn’t been a point of interest to the other man.

Yuuri thinks about the ideas for a minute, chewing thoughtfully. More jewels would catch the light, but too much would be going over board, and could end up looking cheap.

“Let’s do the red lining,” he confirms, “But maybe not the jewels, not at this point, at least.”

Phichit nods, and continues talking about the weather as Yuuri finishes his breakfast up. It’s comfortable, and Yuuri feels himself relax, further than he’d had in the bath. He loves this, the days after a performance. He won’t practise, for his limbs are too tired and his temples are usually still pounding, but he’ll enjoy himself. Take a walk, buy something from a shop. Everything he never got to do as a child.

“I’ll take this down,” Phichit offers as Yuuri wipes his mouth with the small cloth, “Then we can go to the bank and get the money, yeah? We’ll be back in time to get you all dolled up for your lunch.” He grins, laughing when Yuuri puffs his cheeks out at him, catching the cloth he threw at his head. “Touchy, Yuuri!” He teases, before disappearing out the door.

 

* * *

 

 

They walk to the bank. It’s sunny, and many others are out and about, going to business or enjoy themselves in the sunshine. That doesn’t change the fact that it’s cold, though, and Yuuri shivers in his large coat, the snow crunching under his boots. At least it’s a step up from last night, when the rain had pelted and Yuuri thought he’d freeze half to death in his costume.

Phichit continues talking about this and that, random things, Yuuri murmuring something along whenever he thinks it’s appropriate. It’s good, having a friend like Phichit, who fills the silence but doesn’t expect Yuuri to reply, knowing that the Japanese boy would rather just listen.

Yuuri’s thoughts are on last night. So far, for whole time he’s been performing, he’d never been invited to lunch. If people stare, or become enamoured by him, it is only for the night, and in the morning they forget all about Eros, or what had drawn them to him so. Yuuri doesn’t mind that, though. The effect lasts enough for them to throw money at him, and that only means he’ll spare the awkwardness of them realising he’s not the creature oozing forbidden desire he is on stage but actually rather dull.

“We’re here,” Phichit touches Yuuri’s elbow, “I’ll head in and give the cheque, want to come?”

Yuuri shakes his head, plastering on a small smile, “No, it’s alright, I’ll wait here.” Before ushering Phichit into the bank.

There’s a niggling doubt in his mind. Viktor will no doubt be disappointed. He’s an artist, he must’ve seen something in Yuuri’s dancing, but that had just been a persona, a part of Yuuri he rarely shows to anyone outside of the stage. Yuuri knows it shouldn’t matter, because this won’t last. He’ll see Yuuri as he really is, a foreign boy with a lack of taste in wardrobe and an anxious personality. At least Yuuri will have a pleasant lunch, and see what one of the richest men around lives like.

Tugging his coat higher around his neck, Yuuri decides that no matter how badly it goes, he’s safe with the fact that he’ll probably never see the man again, and get to laugh about the experience with Phichit.

“All done! I didn’t keep you waiting too long, did I?”

Yuuri shakes his head as Phichit exits the bank, giving him a thumbs-up.

“Everything’s on our account, I did end up withdrawing a few coins, though. Do you want to go back home?”

“No, I have the mind to walk for a bit, is that alright?”

“Of course!”

They end up touring the area, trudging through quite some snow because there hadn’t been a lot of people put due to the weather, only the ones who have pressing jobs to attend to.

They do receive some strange looks, but Yuuri is used to that. Neither he nor Phichit look like they belong, and have been often approached with questions that are none too gentle. At least the people he dances for are discreet, and find that Yuuri’s looks only add to his exotic act.

Phichit ends up dragging Yuuri into a teahouse, buying a sweet pastry that they share walking outside. Though Yuuri tries to politely refuse (using his weight and money as an excuse) Phichit laughs it off, saying that they can indulge after such a good night and Yuuri landing lunch with Nikiforov. All in all, they waste enough time outside than cooped up in their shared rooms.

The walk and pastry help Yuuri calm his nerves, and when they finally make their way back to the boarding house, he feels much better, even prepared for the lunch ahead. He finds himself grinning at the jokes Phichit cracks (something about the fashions of the night before; how everyone looked like they were wearing a whole jeweler store amongst themselves), and even agreeing to let Phichit mess with his hair for his rendezvous with Nikiforov.

Once they’re back at their rooms, Phichit tugs Yuuri over to the small dressing table, plopping him down even as he grumbles good-naturally.

“Sit, Yuuri! And stop whining, you’re going to look like a shiny penny after I’m done with you. Are you really planning on wearing this drab suit?” Phichit bombards his best friend, smiling at him in the mirror, acting like the perfect manager.

“It’s perfectly fine!” Yuuri argues as Phichit snorts.

“Yeah, right. Are you sure you don’t want to wear your eros costume again? It should be dry by now, and he seems to like it so much…”

“No. I want to come to him as I am. Eros is just an illusion, you know.” Yuuri sighs, staring at himself in the slightly dirtied mirror, touching the dark bags under his eyes.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. Eros is inside you, you just don’t show it,” Phichit says. The things that Yuuri does, it can’t be set aside as simply an illusion; Yuuri just hasn’t found a way to release it yet outside of his dance. Phichit should know, he’s his best friend.

Phichit messes up Yuuri’s hair slightly, opting to not reach for the gel and smooth it back. If Yuuri wants to be him, then they can do that. He reaches for their stage paint, dabbing a little under Yuuri’s eyes to hide most of the shadows. Other than that, he leaves the dancer alone, only reaching for a small rose from the bouquet on the side of the dressing table, tucking it into the lapel of Yuuri’s jacket.

“There we go! You’re going to charm his pants off, I’m telling you.” Phichit laughs, pinching Yuuri’s cheek.

“You think so?” Yuuri hesitates, looking into the mirror. The anxiety is back again, pulsing under his veins. He looks… normal. Nothing compared to the way Viktor had looked last night, absolutely put-together and handsome.

“I do. Now let’s go and catch you a cab, I expect you back at a decent time, you heard me, mister? We’ve got to keep Nikiforov waiting,” Phichit teases, helping Yuuri up and slipping his hand through his arm as they exit their rooms.

A blush works its way up Yuuri’s neck. He doesn’t expect to stay long at all, let alone act flirtatious. He’s a perfect gentleman, Viktor must be, Yuuri repeats to himself as they make it back out on the street. It’s nothing but a friendly lunch.

 

* * *

 

 

The ride takes a while, so Yuuri is glad he had made it out earlier. He spends the entire time taking deep breaths and trying to calm down, preparing himself for when he has to see the gorgeous man from last night again. Unfairly gorgeous. Yuuri bites his thumb as he remembers his grey (silver in the light of the chandeliers) hair, his blue eyes, the way his suit fit so well and emphasised his broad shoulders. God, how is he expected to talk to the man and stay alive?

They’re out of the city when the carriage jerks to a stop and Yuuri is tumbling out, pressing a couple of coins into the driver’s palm. He has no idea how he’ll get back, with how far they’re out at this point (he’s sure he heard the cabbie complain about the distance, too, but quiet down after the sum he received for his service), so Yuuri hopes against hope that Viktor likes him enough to provide him with a ride back.

The cabbie drives away, and Yuuri is left standing in front of a manor, a huge building with acres of land surrounding it.

Yuuri wonders if it’s too late to run after the cab and beg for a ride back.

Sucking in a breath, Yuuri walks up to the entrance, his hands shaking. He pauses before knocking, giving himself another second to back out before he finally, finally puts his fist on the polished wood of the door.

The door swings opens almost immediately,  leaving Yuuri blinking at a tall man clad in a neat black suit, leaving him with his hand still in the air, which he quickly puts behind his back, swallowing nervously. He catches a glimpse at the inside before the man speaks, and already finds it ridiculously big and filled with possession that each probably cost more than Yuuri’s entire life savings. Is that a gold vase?

“Eros? Lord Nikiforov is waiting for you in the drawing room,” Surprisingly, the butler (Yuuri thinks him to be a butler, he’s never actually seen one aside from in places where he dances) recognises him immediately, and Yuuri gives a small nod, letting him step aside and gestures Yuuri inside.

Yuuri stares straight ahead, trying to ignore the many decorations and beautiful furniture. It’ll only make him more nervous, make him realize just how out of place he is right now. As the butler leads him through the entrance hall, he notices a couple of paintings hung up, mostly nature. He can’t help but wonder if Viktor had painted all of them himself. Yuuri doesn’t know much about art, very little aside from dance in fact, but he can tell that they’re all very pretty and done with a good hand. The space is vast, leading into what is perhaps used as a ballroom. The floors are polished so well that Yuuri can see his reflection in them.

He startles when the butler touches his elbow, pointing him towards a large staircase leading up. Yuuri assumes that is where the main rooms of the building are, and lets the butler lead him, staring wide-eyed at the steps.

They stop in front of a large wooden door, the butler raising his hand and knocking before pushing it open, calling out a “Eros is here to see you,” Before stepping aside, giving Yuuri way.

Yuuri gulps. This is it. He is going to see Viktor now; as Yuuri. Not eros, just him. He might be recognisable, but he does look different from last night. Maybe even too different. Will Viktor be disappointed?

Realising that he doesn’t have much choice, Yuuri steps into the room, feeling rather than hearing the door close behind him.

It’s a spacious, but more personal than the hall that they’ve been through. There’re multiple armchairs, most gathered around a large fireplace, a couple of other’s beside the window facing the courtyard. There’s an unfinished chess game on one of the coffee-tables, some of the pieces overturned.

“Eros! I am so glad you came, really, I hadn’t expected you to. Oh, you probably receive invitations like these all the time.” There’s a flurry of movement from the seat closest to the fire, and Viktor Nikiforov stands up, smiling wide as he approaches Yuuri, clad in a cream day suit.

Yuuri suddenly finds that he is even more nervous. Viktor looks different from the crisp,       mysterious man he’d been the night before, in his black and white evening dress. He’d oozed arrogance and status and now he seems a lot more relaxed, though no less handsome.  The sunlight from the window bathes his hair in white and paired with his smile, it threatens to almost blind Yuuri.

“Oh, I—I’m very thankful for the invitation. I couldn’t refuse.”  Yuuri replies, trying at his own smile, though it comes out slightly more subdued than Viktors through his nervousness.

That doesn’t seem to dampen Viktor’s spirits, though, as gestures to the armchair that is opposite to the one where Viktor had been sitting. “Come, sit, would you like someone to bring us some wine? Tea?”

Slightly awkwardly, Yuuri makes his way to the chair, sitting down. Suddenly, he feels so out of place amongst the soft cushions in his drab brown suit, next to Viktor’s immaculate and bright appearance. The rose in his lapel probably appears incredibly silly, and Yuuri now wishes that he hadn’t let Phichit put it where it is now. “No, I, uh, I tend not to drink, sorry, I’m not very good at holding my liquor, and I did have tea before coming here.” He says, apologetically, shifting slightly on the large seat.

“That’s alright. I thought we could speak here, before having lunch in the gardens.” Viktor shrugs, resting his chin on the palm of his hand.

Yuuri blanches. This man has gardens? He knows he shouldn’t be surprised, not with how large the estate had looked from the outside, but it’s still a lot to take in, knowing that Viktor could just go out of a door and be surrounded by nature and paths and flowers, eat there whenever he wishes…

“That would be nice.” Yuuri says, politely.

“Excellent!” Viktor claps his hands together, the grin returning, before he sobers again, “May I ask your real name? I understand if you would rather not give it, but somehow I can’t keep calling you Eros, not after I’ve met the real you.” The man before him is very different to the one he had seen on stage. The air of confidence is much more subdued now, hidden inside the lithe body covered in the most dreadful brown fabric.

Yuuri hesitates.

Coming to Viktor as he is is already stressful enough. Revealing his real name will be like stripping the last remains of eros from his form, leaving him naked for Viktor to study and see, free of the pseudo sexual confidence and certainty. He’ll be completely at his mercy, open to any questions the other man might ask.

Somehow, it doesn’t scare Yuuri as much as it should.

“Yuuri Katsuki,” Yuuri says, at length, a little cautiously, “It is fine if you can’t pronounce it right.” Rarely anyone does.

“Katsuki?” Viktor crinkles his nose. It comes out sounding like kat-soo-kee, and it is obvious that Viktor is displeased with himself, and the fact that he hadn’t gotten it right on the first try. The word feels foreign on his tongue, just like Yuuri is, so different and beautiful at the same time. Viktor wants to capture his essence in a painting, any painting, just one that reminds him of how ethereal the man in front of him is.

Somehow, Viktor’s mispronunciation doesn’t bother Yuuri in the slightest. In fact, he finds it quite endearing, but he buries that thought in the back of his mind.

Viktor tries again, and Yuuri smiles encouragingly, “Almost.”

“My cousin is named Yuri too, you know, though he’s Russian. I call him Yura most of the time.”

“Yura?”

“Yes, it’s a little nickname.” Viktor laughs, remembering his little cousin, hair in the process of growing out as he blows his tomato-red cheeks out at him as the older man pestered him with yura, yuratchka, yurio. He stayed back in Russia when Viktor moved here, and refuses to ever visit, saying that the weather is absolutely atrocious, though it’s much colder back there.

Yuuri nods. He doesn’t know much about Russian traditions when it comes to names, barely anything at all. He knows there are easy, shortened versions to almost each one, but what they are always eludes him.

“So, Yuri, have you always danced?” Viktor asks after a few moments of silence passed by. It had been neither awkward nor particularly comfortable, and he felt the urge to break it again, feeling as though perhaps he’d been staring at the way Yuuri’s hair fell over his eyes just slightly for too long.

Yuuri’s mouth goes dry. What does he say? He knows that many would prefer to never think of him as struggling before he had taken to the stage. That most rich gentlemen and ladies view his life as something glamorous, freeing of the strict society that consisted of normal people. He couldn’t possibly tell Viktor about how his family had been barely able to feed him, or how he’d had to sell newspapers until it was too dark to be able to walk back to the one room they called home safely. Somehow, though, Viktor’s eyes (so blue, Yuuri notices) and easy smile make the words want to come out.

They don’t, but he finds himself unable to lie completely, either (Yuuri has always struggled with lying, something that Phichit has pointed out often).

“No,” He starts off, truthfully, “Not always. Not technically, though I practiced by myself. Then my friend, Phichit, saw me, and said we should try and make a living off it. I had learned here and there,” Most of it is the truth, Yuuri is simply skirting over the finer detailing.

Viktor tilts his head. “You look as if you were born on the stage,” He says, tone all honesty and wonder.

A flush runs up Yuuri’s neck and he tries to fight it back, futilely. It ends up painting his cheeks a dark pink, and he looks away from Viktor out to the window, because Viktor only threatens to make it all that darker, with his broad shoulders and heart shaped smile.

Viktor truly thinks Yuuri is the most beautiful thing in that moment, sitting on an armchair laden with pillows, the sunlight making his black hair glossy and his round eyeglasses reflecting it at times.

“Thank you.” Yuuri whispers, not knowing what else to say. The anxiety is coursing through his veins, but now in a different way. Viktor’s compliment had made his chest tighten; no one had ever said it so honestly, with so much feeling and belief in Yuuri’s talent. Everyone else had seen him as some exotic dancer, showing them forbidden desires that they’d never be able to indulge in. Viktor makes it seem as if Yuuri is an artist, too, not just something erotic to look at for the night.

“That rose. Who gave it to you?” Viktor asks, and this question is just as sudden as all his previous ones. “An admirer?” There’s something different in his eyes, now. Curiosity, perhaps.

Yuuri can’t help but give a short, nervous laugh, his hand coming up self-consciously to touch a petal of the flower. “Ah, no. Phichit likes to have flowers in the room most of the time; he says it takes away the smell of musty floorboards of the boarding house. He put it on me.”

“That’s good,” Viktor sighs, his smile back, though a lot softer now as he stands up, offering a hand to Yuuri. “Shall we? Georgi has set out a picnic lunch for us, I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself.”

Yuuri stares at Viktor’s hand for a moment, before taking it. He drops it immediately after, as if burned. He doesn’t know how long it is deemed appropriate to hold hands with someone of Viktor’s status, though something tells him it can’t be too long. Viktor’s hand is warm, large, and he regrets letting it go, though knowing that he needs to. He doesn’t notice Viktor’s brief, disappointed look as they both move to the exit of the room.

Viktor opens the door for the both of them, turning his head to Yuuri as he smiles, “I never did say, your performance last night was amazing. Enchanting.”

The blush is back, full force. “Thank you,” Yuuri says, for what seems like the millionth time he’s talked to Viktor. He feels that same warm, large hand settle on the middle of his back as they head down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd here it is! Trying to get back into a better updating schedule, which I'm still trying to work out, so next chapter coming either next week or the week after!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garden walks aren't as romantic when it's cold as balls. Neither of them mind. Viktor is too obvious and Yuuri is too oblivious.
> 
> TRANSLATION:  
> боже мой- my god

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took so long, I'm sorry! This fic is like my baby tbqh. I'm planning ahead a lot and coming up with many headcanons. Anyway, originally, this was going to go differently, but these two are dumb and don't let me have my way.

They go towards the back door, Viktor’s hand a light weight on the small of Yuuri’s back. It’s not exactly a foreign touch; Phichit often guides Yuuri like this if he’s jittery after a performance, but it’s strange, nonetheless. Viktor seems so comfortable to be touching him, a bright smile on his face. Yuuri himself feels lost, head turning this way and that as they walk through the manor.

“Do you like it?”

Yuuri gives a short, bitten off laugh. It sounds as anxious as he feels at getting caught looking around like some sort of street urchin (and he is, really). Does he like it? What kind of question even is that? Of course Yuuri liked this place, he’s sure it’d be impossible to not like it. He wonders how Viktor doesn’t get lost living in something this grand.

“It was quite dreadful when I first got it. I couldn’t stop sneezing because it was so dusty.” Viktor says, brightly, but there’s a far off look in his eyes, like he isn’t thinking about the redecorating of the manor at all. “I did send a few people ahead of my arrival here, but it didn’t feel personal enough.”

Yuuri turns his head to look at Viktor. The house seems to reflect its owner’s personality all too much, so Yuuri can guess why Viktor wouldn’t have found it personal enough at the start. Its loud and extravagant just like him, but he knows it’d look harsh and bare without the paintings on the walls and the Persian rugs he can see in some of the rooms they pass. “Isn’t it lonely, living in a place so big?” he asks on a whim, almost cringing when he realises how out of place that question probably is. Viktor’s probably used to it, and wouldn’t feel lonely at all. Besides, he still doesn’t even know if Viktor is married or not, or if he has children...

“Sometimes, but I have my dog to keep me company! The staff too, of course. I am close with all of them.” Viktor smiles down at Yuuri, and Yuuri’s heart skips a beat. He can see why his servants like him; it’s practically impossible not to.

“Speaking of Makkachin, my dog, Georgi usually lets her out in the gardens if she wants, you’ll probably get to meet her!” Viktor lightens up as he speaks of his dog, the slight tenseness in his face melting away as he thinks of his poodle, the same one he says keeps him company in the manor. Yuuri realises, with a jolt, that if Viktor had been married, his wife would’ve been in on the equation, too.

Pushing open the back door, Viktor guides Yuuri forward, and into the gardens. They’re his pride and joy; large and well tended to, he’s a lot happier out there rather than inside. They’ve been the subject of many of his paintings, so much so that he’s sure there isn’t a corner in their vastness that he hasn’t at least sketched before. The place is a stark contrast to the coldness of that morning, with most of the snow already melted, the flowers peeking through and the perfectly tended to shrubbery sopping wet.

“Maybe it’s not the best weather for a stroll,” Viktor furrows his brows as he looks down at the walkway doubtfully, then at his shoes, wondering if ruining them would be such a good idea after all.

Yuri’s eyes widen. He hadn’t thought of it before. When he arrived, walking into the manor had hit him in the face with a wave of heat, and the chill from the boarding house and then the outside had melted away from his bones as easily as anything. However, Yuuri doesn’t mind the cold, likes it, even. Far more than the sweltering heat of summer, at least.   He looks at Viktor, then down at the path, raising a brow.

“I think it’s perfect, actually. You wouldn’t mind?” Yuuri says, with a smile. Despite it only being the cusp of spring and the ground wet with the last snowfall last night, it’s still very beautiful. Yuuri had never really thought himself to be a nature person, but maybe most of that was attributed to the fact that the city was always drab and grey, and he rarely had the time or energy to visit any parks, least of all in winter. Here, in Viktor’s manor, tucked away on the edge of all the action, it seems different. Yuuri slips away from Viktor’s side, walking down far more confidently than he felt.

It only takes Viktor a second or two to set down to the path after Yuuri, who’s curiously looking at what he thinks might be a bird bath (or had been one before; now there is some sort of artistic shrubbery in it that Yuuri doesn’t really understand).

They stay like that for a while in the cool air before Viktor, excitedly, draws Yuuri’s attention to a bare bush with a pointed finger, explaining the type of flowers that will bloom there in a number of weeks, before they proceed further down the path. They follow this pattern, Yuuri listening attentively, sometimes asking a question or two about the upkeep of the plants. He’s surprised to find that Viktor tends to them sometimes on his own, too, with the amount of spare time he has on his hands.

Soon, they come to a stop, all conversation of botanical nature drifting off as Yuuri stares at what Viktor told him were winter pansies.

“It is no hyde park, but I quite like it,” Viktor hums as he comes close to Yuuri again, hand hovering a couple of centimetres away from his hip, as if he’s considering whether it would be alright to touch him, set a hand on his hip. Seemingly to decide against it, the hand drops, although Viktor turns a blinding smile towards the Japanese boy.

Yuuri looks around, towards Viktor, a confused look on his face. He’s never heard of said park. In fact, he’s just now hit with the stark realisation that he’s seen very little aside from the damp streets he’s grown up in. Sure, he’s visited ballrooms and other manors, but never in the daylight. What he performs is always kept in the dark, alighted with heavy, hanging chandeliers.  Yuuri tells himself he shouldn’t feel jealous of the free time and freedom someone like Viktor has, that it won’t do well to think badly of the man, not when he’s so kind.

There’s sweetness underneath the crisp, cold air, an aroma of flowers hinting at the approaching spring. Yuuri doesn’t know whether he’s imagining it or not, but it is astonishingly real. A cold gust of air ruffles Yuuri’s hair, and brings with it even more of a hint at the warmth that will soon settle in.

“Have you ever been?” Viktor asks, suddenly, breaking Yuuri’s stupor that had been brought on by the teasing scent of spring.

“Ah, no,” He replies, flushing, eyes sliding away from Viktor’s face (Viktor’s face that is unfairly handsome, even with his nose and cheekbones reddened from the cold).

“Oh.” Viktor says, looking almost confused, like he can’t believe it. “Well, you should. It’s beautiful. Not now, of course, but the rose gardens are simply--”

Viktor doesn’t get to finish, because there’s a large and fluffy form careening into him with a series of loud barks and yips, knocking him off his feet cleanly into a patch of melting snow. Viktor gives a loud yelp of his own, unable to gain his footing and crashing down, the dog on top of him. Yuuri stares in alarm, wondering if he should help or not.

“Makka, _stop_!”

Yuuri’s alarm fades when he hears a loud laugh erupt from Viktor, his arms, clad in the cream suit that is now sopping wet, encircle the body of the wriggling poodle. The Russian mad tries to get up and dislodge the affectionate dog, but the poodle only drops down on him further, lovingly licking all over his owner’s face.

“Makka, off,” Viktor finally says, firmly, as the dog rolls of off him, coming to nose along Yuuri’s ankles.

Yuuri bends down, offering Viktor a hand, who clutches onto it and jumps up, trousers wet, grey hair in a disarray, some strands sticking to his forehead. Yuuri can’t help but laugh at the vision, so different to the put-together lord that he’d seen in the drawing room. He bites down on the laugh quickly, though, covering it with his other hand, the one not occupied with holding Viktors.

Speaking of Yuuri’s hand—Viktor is still holding it, fingers freezing cold as they gently squeeze Yuuri’s. Yuuri’s breath catches in his chest, and he doesn’t try pulling away.

“That’s Makkachin, she’s the cutest, isn’t she?” Viktor says, smiling wide despite his worse-for-wear appearance. Makkachin barks happily at Yuuri’s feet, nudging him in the knee with her wet nose.

Yuuri’s suddenly reminded of how he, Phichit and Mari had picked up a puppy similar to Makkachin a while back, where he’d been left on the street in a little box. Yuuri had named him Vicchan, after Victor Hugo, of whom he’d heard about at school. He isn’t about to tell Viktor that, though, not with how similar the names are. He bends down, at level with Makkachin, and gives her a pet on the head.

Makkachin barks happily, settling her front paws up on Yuuri’s shoulders and giving his cheek a hearty lick.

“Ah-ha! She likes you! I knew she’d like you. I mean, who wouldn’t.” Viktor says, pleased with himself.

Yuuri flushes under both Makkachin and Viktor’s praise, biting down on his comment of, many people don’t, I’m quite the bore.

A violent coughing fit seizes Viktor, Yuuri looking up immediately from where he’d been scratching Makkachin behind the ears. Viktor tries to cover it up as best as he can, playing it off with a smile, but Yuuri’s brows furrow nonetheless as he stands up, fretting. Even Makkachin gives a worried whine.

“You’re drenched! We need to go back inside, you might catch a cold.” Yuuri had been so enamoured with Viktor’s dog (and who wouldn’t be, really) that he’d completely forgotten the tumble her owner took in the snow. Worry seizes in his chest. Viktor will probably blame him if he catches a cold. Yuuri had been the one to say he wanted to see the gardens in this weather, if he’d only be listened to Viktor, perhaps he wouldn’t be on his way to being kicked out.

“Yuuri, I’m fine! So what, I got my trousers a little wet...” The smile in Viktor’s voice is as evident as the one on his face; only broken by a harsh sneeze.

Yuuri stares at him, wondering how he’s still so happy. “No, let’s go!” he insists, eyeing Viktor, who’s trying hard to suppress the shivers.

Viktor whines some more, but succumbs to the pleading of Yuuri’s eyes, letting the Japanese boy lead them back into the manor with a laugh, Makkachin following steadily behind. Somewhere half across the way, Viktor’s freezing hand finds Yuuri’s, and he ends up pulling them along and through the doors.

“Viktor, don’t tell me you actually took the dancer outside in this weather. You know, Anya would have never--- _боже мой_ , Viktor, the rug, you’re standing on the Persian rug!”

Yuuri starts as his gaze travels up, meeting with the figure of a rather ruffled, well-dressed man. He’s probably a butler, judging by the black and white scheme, and has dark lining his eyes. It’s strange, because Yuuri rarely sees that sort of makeup apart from on himself when he dances, and is struck surprised by the picture the man paints.

“Ah, sorry, Georgi,” Viktor says, brightly, stepping off the rug and leaving behind a wet patch. His hand is still holding Yuuri’s, despite the little slack the Japanese man gave after seeing Georgi the first time. It’s hardly appropriate. Viktor couldn’t seem to care less.

“You need to go get changed, I’ll lead Yuuri back to the drawing room, you just--” Georgi sighs, and is interrupted by a short cough Viktor gives.

Viktor shakes his head violently. “No, I’m not leaving Yuuri.”

“Uh.” Yuuri says, staring at where he’s holding Viktor’s hand. Lord Nikiforov’s hand. Oh god. “Really, it’s fine. You’re cold, you should...”

“Nonsense! Georgi will bring me a blanket, right, Georgi?” Viktor turns his head to the man in question, perfect brows raised. Georgi only gives a heavier sigh, nodding his head jerkily. He must realise by now that arguing with Viktor is a futile task.

As Georgi curtly leaves in another direction (probably to fetch Viktor the blanket; though not without some murmured words under his breath), Viktor tugs at Yuuri’s hand again, leading him back up the huge staircase to where they had been previously.

Yuuri thinks about how he’s never seen any other rich man treat a butler or a cook or any other worker as well as Viktor had. Viktor had spoken to him as if they were equals. In fact, Viktor hadn’t spoken to Yuuri disrespectfully at all. If any doubt had remained in Yuuri’s mind about this visit, then it had all but evaporated now. Viktor hadn’t looked at him like the other men did, even though he was practically asking for it due to his profession. Viktor hadn’t spoken to him as if he was daft, regardless of his looks and background. Hadn’t pressured him into anything. It was all too new and overwhelming.

Soon, they were back in the drawing room, Makkachin following them in, Yuuri sitting comfortably in the big armchair and Viktor dries off in his own, the fireplace doing wonders to bring feeling back into their numb toes and fingers. When they had entered, Viktor had seemed almost reluctant to let go of Yuuri’s hand, pausing for a second and regarding their situation, deciding finally that it was, perhaps, too much to push the armchairs together so he wouldn’t have to let go of Yuuri.

Georgi enters the room not too long after, wheeling in a trolley with two teacups and an array of food, a blanket draped over one arm. He gives the blanket to Viktor, narrowing his heavily painted eyes at him and hissing a couple of words in, what Yuuri believes to be, Russian. Viktor only laughs in return, putting the blanket over his shoulders.

Yuuri thanks Georgi, turning his eyes to the plates. It’s a little daunting. There are perfectly cut and prepared sandwiches on one plate, tea cakes on the other, the tea smells heavenly and there’s steam rising from both cups. Yuuri hesitates, and wonders if it’s really alright to take something.

He isn’t left wondering for long, because Viktor reaches for a sandwich himself, giving Yuuri an encouraging smile. “Masha’s a great cook, but a little strict. I’m no longer allowed in the kitchen after I accidentally knocking over her favourite pot. Try the tea cake, it’s really good.”

Unable to help smiling, Yuuri takes one, biting into it and tasting cinnamon. It teases his tastebuds, and he sighs. He’s never had anything this sweet or good- the things he and Phichit buy are usually far blander.

Yuuri’s eyes rise to Viktor, and he sees him staring. A faint blush raises high to Yuuri’s cheeks as he realises how embarrassing he’d just been, finish off the little cake in a few seconds flat. He tries to hide that embarrassment by taking a cup of tea, drinking a large gulp, and burning his tongue.

“Do you have a lover?”

The question comes as a shock, as a lot of things have this day. Yuuri coughs into his tea, only making his tongue ache all the more. His attempt at hiding embarrassment fails, as the pink blush turns into something flaming all over his cheeks and ears.

Viktor watches, a pleasant smile on his face. He looks amused, but, above all, genuinely curious.

“I- uh,” Yuuri doesn’t know how to answer. Of course he doesn’t have a lover. He’s had feelings for a girl once, when he’d been really young, but after that... romance had never been on the table.  He’d done some things with Phichit, like some less-than-innocent kisses and a few fumbles in the dark when they’d share a bed. He can’t say any of that, though. Viktor would be positively scandalised if he knew.

Besides, Yuuri knows how most people are about preferences towards men. He knows it’s expected from him, when he dances like he does, for the crowds that he performs in front of, but some still like to remain in denial. It’s all fine and good, until the question is out in the open.

“No, I don’t... I don’t have a l-lover...” Yuuri stutters out, taking another gulp of tea to soothe his suddenly scratchy throat.

“I’m glad. I’m not good at sharing.” Viktor replies, sipping at his cup as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Yuuri raises his eyes. Viktor looks every inch the lounging beauty, his hair dry now, Makkachin stretched out at his feet. His day suit might still be wet, a darker colour than the light cream it had been before, but it doesn’t make him seem awkward, unlike Yuuri, who’s still completely dry with his hair combed. Viktor won’t have to share his time with anyone, when he’s like this.

“No one else invites me like this, my time is yours.” Yuuri shrugs his shoulders.

They both drift into a comfortable silence, broken only by one reaching for either of the plates and Makkachin’s soft snores. Yuuri even sheds his old coat, warmed by the fire blazing in front of them. Viktor keeps the blanket on, but the shivering had long ago receded. It feels terribly domestic to Yuuri, almost natural. He knows it shouldn’t, not when he knows he’ll probably never get this opportunity again, but he can’t help relax his shoulders no longer tense.

They finish the sandwiches and tea cakes, Yuuri satisfyingly full. Makkachin whimpers in his sleep, jerking Yuuri out of where he’d been staring somewhere just below Viktor’s jaw.

“I should go,” he says, finally, trying at a small smile. It comes easier than he’d expected.

“Do you have to? The ride back is long. You can stay.” Viktor answers immediately, brows furrowing down.

“No, no, you’ve already done so much! I really should. Phichit is waiting for me; we still need to go over some expenses...” Yuuri says. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome. Besides, it looks like the drying suit is becoming to look uncomfortable on Viktor. He tries really, really hard not to imagine him without it.

“I suppose. Let me see you out, Pasha will drive you back.” Sighing, Viktor stands up, shaking the blanket off his shoulders. Yuuri follows, bending down to give Makkachin a last pet as he redresses.

As they descend down, Viktor’s hand finds the small of Yuuri’s back again. Yuuri doesn’t mind it, would’ve been disappointed if it hadn’t been there, actually. It scares him to think that he’s so used to it, already.

Viktor tells a man downstairs to get the coach ready, who gives a sharp nod before going to do as told. Both he and Yuuri are left standing at the front entrance, staring at each other, Yuuri shuffling slightly.

It had been nice, really nice, Yuuri thinks. He had expected it to be awkward, but it had been nothing of that sort.  He knows he’ll probably never see Viktor again, but it he’s glad he got to experience this. Yuuri reminds himself to thank Phichit for practically forcing him to go.

“You’ll come again, won’t you? You can bring your friend, too! Maybe I can come to you, even.” Viktor breaks the silence.

Yuuri’s speechless. Viktor is giving him permission to see him again? The thought that there’s no way Yuuri can have Viktor see where he lives doesn’t pass his mind. Usually, Yuuri hates mixing his private life with his nightlife, doesn’t let anyone see him as anyone other than Eros. Viktor had met him as yuuri, though, and he doesn’t seem to be disappointed.

The horse knickers outside, and Yuuri gives a quick nod. “Uh, yes, yes, if you’ll have me!”

A small smile tugs at the corners of Viktor’s lips. “Believe me, I’d love to have you.” There’s an undeniable tone of innuendo under that. One that Yuuri misses.

Yuuri nods again, biting at his bottom lip, ready to leave when Viktor steps forward; hand settling on Yuuri’s hip and flexing lightly. His lips find the Japanese boy’s cheek, and press there for a brief moment.

Dumbfounded, Yuuri stutters a quick and nervous ‘goodbye’, rushing out towards the coach, repeating to himself that that last gesture hadn’t meant anything. That it was probably a Russian tradition. That Viktor is just affectionate.

Left leaning against the door, Viktor sniffles, his cold hitting him back full-force. “I think I’m in love.” He says, and sneezes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! I hope you liked it. CUrrently I'm swamped with exams so I don't know how quickly the next chapter will be out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they're pining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter for multiple reasons: they're both thirsty as hell, and the plot is finally making an appearance! I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> Next chapter, I'll finally have a beta! I just wanted to have this one out quickly. You won't have to put up with my mistakes anymore :)
> 
> TRANSLATIONS:  
> Витя, не надо, закончится плохо- Vitya, ne nado, zakonchitsya plokho/Vitya, don't, it'll end badly.  
> А с Анной нет? - A s Annoy nyet?/And it didn't with Anya?  
> Жора, прости.- Zhora, prosti/ Sorry, Zhora (it's a diminutive of Georgi/George. I know this one isn't practically popular with the fandom, but I find it super cute, + I call my cat that, and he reminds me lots of Georgi)  
> mon cher- my dear
> 
> Tell me how you feel about the russian in the fic. I can change it and instead italicise it, but I won't lie, writing in my mother language is sometimes fun. I put all the translations in, but if you prefer me not to, please tell me and I'll write it all out in english. 
> 
> also a WARNING for a short phichit/yuuri scene towards the end. It's not overly graphic and won't mean anything major in the long run (pairings won't change) but I think it's important to note.

 

Watching Yuuri leave had made his heart clench in his chest. They’d only spent an afternoon together, and yet Viktor already feels as if they’ve been parted for far too long. He wants Yuuri here, he wants Yuuri to wake up and for them to have breakfast together, Makkachin asking to be fed from under the table even though she has a perfectly good meal waiting for her already. Viktor, though known for letting things get out of hand, had never felt like this before; had never met anyone who he wanted so badly before. Not in the way he wanted Yuuri, at least. Sexual desire isn’t new to Viktor at all, and he knows that he’s a gracious lover, but, although bringing Yuuri to his bed might’ve been what he’d been planning, once he saw the man in all his glory outside of his act, it wasn’t about sex any more.

“Витя, не надо, закончится плохо.” Georgi sighs, tugging at Viktor who’s sniffling again, urging him to go up and change his clothes.

“А с Аннай нет?” Viktor’s answers, a little irritated. He regrets it almost immediately after, because it’s a low blow. He’s invited Georgi out here to get over his heartbreak in the first place (and everyone was getting slightly annoyed with it at this point, anyway) and now he’s only made it worse.

Viktor is known to push too much, and he realises that. He doesn’t know when to stop. Maybe that’s why Yuuri had been scared off from staying the night, perhaps he’d thought Viktor had been too forward. A niggling thought in Viktor’s tells him that maybe he hadn’t been clear enough at all with Yuuri, he’s so used to the play and subtle words involved when it comes to seduction of his own social class, that he doesn’t even know how to go about Yuuri exactly.

“Жора, прости.”

Georgi only huffs in reply, opening Viktor’s wardrobe (the one that’s in his room, he has a whole separate room dedicated to trousers and waistcoats and silk shirts, these are just his favourites) and, rather forcefully, throws an evening ensemble out onto the bed. Viktor bites his lip. He _deserves_ that.

After that, Georgi exits the room without another word. Usually the other man, if a little gloomy, is chatty- at least with Viktor. He’s only known to get like this when someone really pushes his buttons, and those buttons usually involve Anya.

Left alone in his room (big, empty; his mind drifts to the thought of how it would be like with Yuuri in it), Viktor sighs, making his way over to the small desk positioned next to a large window overlooking the gardens. He picks up his pen, some paper, and moves to write an invite to Chris for dinner. Usually, on a day like this, Viktor would settle down in an open, airy room with good lighting and paint something, anything, to occupy his time. But he’s in a _mood_ , and when he’s in a mood, it’s never good for him to be by himself.

Viktor categorises his moods into three groups, although he rarely sticks to them because he’s not a particularly meticulous person. There’s the unhealthy coping mechanism, the ecstatic, and the satisfied. On average, Viktor bounces between the last two depending on the weather, company, and more rarely the colour of his shirt, but he wouldn’t be an artist if he never experienced the latter. Right now, he can’t pinpoint what he’s feeling. There’d been the ecstatic; the satisfied when Yuuri had been with him, but now there’s a sort of emptiness pressing at him.

Chris always comes whenever Viktor asks because he, too, has little to do with his spare time apart from attending parties and galas and taking trips to the deep country to get out of the city. He’s also privy to all of Viktor’s emotions, and there are _plenty_ of them.

Finishing up with his invite he hunts down Georgi again, finding him dusting down leather novels in the library.  The comment of _you don’t have to do that, you’re a guest, you don’t actually work for_ _me_ dies down on his lips, and he only passes the letter down with a bright smile and the base instructions. Georgi narrows his eyes at him, the shadow around his eyes making him look even more stormy than usual, and doesn’t reply, only pocketing the letter.

Viktor realises he’s going to have to suck it up and apologise properly later.

 

Chris arrives close to seven, Viktor greeting him outside. The second he sees his friend, he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Viktor, mon cher, I didn’t expect for you to call for me until tomorrow!” The second Chris steps down from his carriage he envelopes Viktor into a hug, pressing a kiss to one of his cheeks. He draws back, holding the Russian man at an arm’s length, one brow cocked teasingly. “I presume Eros is resting?”

Viktor laughs, breezily. “No, no, he’s safe back home. And his name is _Yuuri_.”

Chris stops from where they were going to enter the manor, settling a hand on Viktor’s elbow. The teasingly cocked brow turns imploring; a low whistle leaves his lips. “Wow, Vitya, he told you his real name? He must have really liked you, then.”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t he? It’s a lovely name. And, even if he doesn’t... I like him enough for the both of us.” Viktor frowns.

“It’s just... men like him don’t often give away personal facts, do they?” Chris chews on his bottom lip, thoughtful, “I hope you know what you’re doing, you sound like you’re in deep waters already.”

Viktor is. Viktor is in _very_ deep waters, and he’s known Yuuri personally for less than a day. “Chris, he’s a dancer, not a rent boy, and even if he were, that wouldn’t change anything.”

His friend laughs, throwing up his hands. “I know, I didn’t mean anything by it. If anyone, I can appreciate his dancing –and his beauty, just as much as you. I’m only surprised. Come, let us go, and you can tell me all about today and your Yuuri.”

They both settle into a different drawing room from the one Viktor occupied with Yuuri that morning, Chris immediately draping himself over a plush cream divan. Makkachin paws at Viktor’s leg until he lets her up onto his lap (she’s really too big for lap cuddles, but that doesn’t stop him) and scratches absentmindedly at her head.

Viktor sneezes, and Chris bursts out laughing, carefully holding the wine a servant brought him away from himself so he doesn’t spill it. “My, what were you two doing? Did he start a snowball fight? You don’t look so well.”

Chuckling back at the teasing, Viktor presses his hand to his heart in a swoon, “No, he didn’t, but can you imagine? It would’ve been so _romantic_. Perhaps I could’ve cornered him under a tree, and then done unspeakable things to him under that tree.”

“And risk a small avalanche of snow falling onto your head? Ever the charmer, aren’t you?”

“No, you’re right,” Viktor says, wistfully, before telling Chris what had happened, exactly, sending Makkachin a playful glare when he reaches the part of being knocked over.

Chris swirls the wine in his glass, smiling. “So I take it you’re going to see Yuuri again?”

“If he wants to see me. I really do, I—there is nothing I’d like more.” Viktor confesses. “He’s even better off the stage. Different, but nonetheless wonderful. He’s so _sweet_. But, oh, that suit, it doesn’t compliment his wonderful form at all! If I could burn that suit and buy him a thousand more, I would.”

“Careful, Vitya, or else your next trip will be to the tailor's.” Chris laughs.

“A marvellous idea, actually!” He knows Chris had meant it as a joke, but the idea can’t help but form. Although Yuuri had been lovely, even in his rather drab outfit, Viktor can’t help but want to introduce him to the world of high fashion, of which he is an avid follower himself. He’d take Yuuri to his favourite tailor, show him the best fabrics, and have him try on the finest coats. He files the idea for later, right along with the trip to the gardens and numerous other plans that he’s already hoping to accomplish with Yuuri.

“Give the poor boy some time, from what you’ve said, he isn’t as used to this as his performances make it seem.” Chris warns, but there’s lightness to it. He’s happy for Viktor, it’s clear.

Viktor grumbles and they settle into a comfortable silence as they let the warmth from the wine wash over them.

 

“Have you heard anything from Yakov?” Chris asks, after a while; when the bottle is quite finished and Makkachin had decided to drop off to sleep at Viktor’s feet.

“No, should I have?” Viktor’s head tilts up. “Is he still upset?”

“Of course he’s still upset! Viktor, you went and left the country out of nowhere, he’s been tearing his hair out for the better part of the year, or so I’ve heard. He expected you to warm up to the idea, you know.”

“He has an heir now. He knows I had no interest in working with him like that from the start.” Viktor says, stubbornly, running a hand through his hair.

“They’re not related directly, though. That could pose some problems.” Chris points out, gently. This topic always agitates Viktor.

“That’s none of my business anymore.” Viktor says, and it’s obvious that that’s the end to that conversation.

“Alright, I just thought you might want to know.” Chris sighs and drains the last of his wine.

 

It’s too late for Chris to return to his own place, and they both prepare one of Viktor’s many guest bedrooms so that Chris could stay overnight. It’s a relief to Viktor, because although their evening had been pleasant and pushed away his loneliness, the reminder of the responsibilities that Viktor had been denying is a weight on his shoulders.

“If it’s any consolation, I think Yuuri likes you a lot. He’s different, I can tell.” Chris clasps Viktor’s hands in his when they part to their respectable rooms for the night, grinning reassuringly.  “And if he’s not, well, you deserve better.”

Viktor is sure there’s no better than Yuuri, not for him, at least, but he accepts Chris’ encouraging words, before bidding him goodnight.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes a long time to get back. When the carriage approaches the lodging house it’s already dusk. Stepping out, Yuuri approaches the tall, thick-set man at the front, offering to pay him for the ride. The man waves him off with a laugh. “No payment, you’re Vitya’s guest.” His accent is thick, but Yuuri understands him clearly, flushing a dark shade of pink. “Thank you,” he replies, before heading up.

He, and the carriage, hadn’t gone unseen.

He could feel the heavy gaze of a woman, who also lodged at their place, standing outside the door waiting for someone. The lavishness of the coach hadn’t gone unnoticed, and Yuuri rushed to get inside, trying to avoid his face being seen. No such luck, even in the dark, Yuuri is recognisable. Though he knows it’s a slight chance she’ll talk, he also knows he needs to be more careful. His suit and his ride definitely didn’t match up.

The second he steps into his and Phichit’s rooms, his friend is gathering him close in a hug, giddy smile on his face.

“Yuuri! Tell me _everything_! You were gone so long, I began to worry. He didn’t do anything strange, did he? If he did, I swear I’ll ride up there myself and kick his--”

“No, no, everything is fine. In fact, he... he was really kind. I didn’t expect that.” Yuuri reassures.

Viktor had been kind. He’d treated Yuuri in a way no one else had. He didn’t seem to mind when Yuuri didn’t know how to hold a cup as neatly as he did, nor did he kick him out after the accident in the gardens.

Warmth floods his cheeks.

It’s a lot colder here than it had been at Viktor’s, and he shivers as Phichit herds him around their little table, the lamp on it blazing gently.

Yuuri is struck with the stark difference between this, their little rooms, and the vastness of the manor he’d been a guest in just this morning. Despite knowing how grand Viktor’s estate had been, Yuuri can’t help but prefer where they are now. There are personal touches here and there, something that makes the rooms homely, like the tattered, large (too large for Phichit’s hands) gloves on the bedside cupboard, the vase of drying flowers near the window. Viktor’s place, filled with expensive items and paintings, hadn’t been like that.

“Tell me everything!” Phichit repeats, his excited face illuminated in the soft light of their lamp.

Yuuri recounts the events of that afternoon, the pleasant memories bringing a smile to his face.

To his credit, Phichit listens attentively, despite being known to interrupt with an exclamation here and there whenever Yuuri would tell him about his day.

“You’ve got a real catch there,” Phichit says after Yuuri is finished, grinning wide, before wiggling his brows. “Do you think he’ll pay our lodging fee if you agree to spend time with him again?”

Laughing, Yuuri waves his hand. He knows it’s a joke, but there’s a tone of reality to it; Viktor would, if Yuuri asked him, he’s sure. The Russian man seems just that kind. “Don’t be ridiculous, Phi, he’s not like that. He simply liked my dancing.”

Phichit looks at Yuuri incredulously, brows rising. “You still think, after all of that, that he’s not enamoured with you? Please, you don’t have to be modest with me, he’s chasing after you already!”

Yuuri blushes a healthy shade of pink. “It’s just how he is. He’s affectionate.”

“He told you he would _love to have you_.” Phichit drops his voice lower as he reminds Yuuri of what he’d told him. Hidden innuendo is never lost on the Thai.

“To have me over!”

“Precious Yuuri, how innocent you are to the ways of men!” Phichit mocks jokingly.

“So are you.”

“Ah,” Phichit lifts up a finger, smiling. “That’s where you’re _wrong_. You see, being your manager, I’ve received some preposterous requests! I think I know too much, actually.”

Yuuri has no reply to that, instead huffing a breath down and looking at his hands, which had been drawing mindless patterns on the old, stained lace tablecloth.

“Yuuri.” Yuuri looks up, biting his lip as his eyes search Phichit’s face.

“Viktor sounds like he really likes you—no, wait, listen to me, even if not in that way –despite thinking that he does—and that’s a good thing. It’s good to have friends in his circle. If anything, you deserve it, Yuuri.” Phichit reaches over to touch Yuuri’s hands with his own, warming them.

Raw emotion spills in Yuuri’s chest. He doesn’t deserve someone like Phichit, who handles each of his anxious moods, who’s been his best friend since they were both young. He doesn’t deserve someone like Viktor, either, in any way, shape or form. But maybe, maybe he can _pretend_ that he does, that he can give back what Phichit gives him in abundance, what Viktor has already given him and will continue to give if they see each other again.

“Thank you,” Yuuri whispers, looking away.

“I mean it. Come on, let’s get you into bed, the ride must’ve been long.” Phichit says, lightly.

Yuuri nods, numbly, getting up and changing to prepare for bed.

 

It’s cold when they settle down, the blankets slightly scratchy. Yuuri is used to this. In fact, this is one of the best places he’s had the opportunity to stay at, so he barely even notices at the start, until his mind drifts to Viktor.

Viktor had offered him to stay the night, hadn’t he? Yuuri would never impose like that, no, but he can’t help but think. It makes him feel a bit _guilty_ , that he is so readily considering staying at someone else’s place while his best friend (and roommate) is in the next bed over.

He thinks of soft sheets and the warmth of the fireplace, thinks of whether the bed would’ve as big as both his and Phichit’s pushed together. Unbidden, his thoughts drift to Viktor himself. The way the sunlight glinted off his grey hair, the blue of his eyes, the way his lips had pressed to Yuuri’s cheek...

“Hey, it’s kinda cold. Would you mind?”

Yuuri startles.

“Sorry, sorry.” There’s a warm puff of air at his shoulder as Phichit laughs quietly, settling in behind and around Yuuri, arms drifting to wrap around his middle.

“That’s okay.” Yuuri says, the guilt settling in deeper.

“Hey, you’re uncharacteristically warm.” Phichit notes after a while.

Yuuri can practically feel his friend’s teasing smile in the crook of his shoulder. His cheeks flame up (as they seem to be doing a lot, lately), and he steers his thoughts as far away from this afternoon as possible.

“It’s okay, Yuuri, I don’t blame you. He’s not really to my taste, but...” Phichit starts, again, one of his hands rubbing at Yuuri’s abdomen.

Yuuri bites down on a soft gasp as the hand trails lower. They’ve done this before, a few times, more so when they were both younger and just growing into their bodies, but—Yuuri won’t deny he needs it. He’s been strung up ever since his performance the previous night, and his time with Viktor hadn’t helped at all. The man had been too gorgeous for his own good, and it seems like Phichit understands that.

“Yeah, _y-yeah_ ,” Yuuri breathes as Phichit’s hand slips lower, into his pants, and wraps around his thickening cock.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a week until Yuuri sees Viktor again.

Three days after his performance, both Phichit and he are back to practising most hours of the day, pushing both Yuuri’s dancing and Phichit’s music. Though the _Eros_ program had been fully-fledged by the time he’d performed it on stage, it’s taking new forms, improving by the day. Yuuri puts a new flair into it, a purpose that hadn’t been there before. Phichit comments on it, says that he knows _why_ , but Yuuri brushes it aside.

He’s simply getting better.

When he doesn’t hear from Viktor in the following days, he won’t deny he’s disappointed. He’d expected something. If not an invite, then maybe a letter, but the silence was daunting. Yuuri tried to tell himself that Viktor was busy, perhaps left somewhere to travel.

There had also been that doubt that maybe Viktor had only told him he wanted to see him again to be polite; maybe he didn’t like him at all, or was upset by the way he’d acted.

Phichit, of course, reassured Yuuri that it wasn’t his fault. That had helped, a little.

So Yuuri ended up throwing his tenseness over expecting a word from Viktor into his dancing, tried to distract himself from the thoughts of the beautiful Russian man as much as he could.

It proved to be more difficult than he thought it would be.

Then, a week after his performance, when he and Phichit had had a late morning and spent a rushed few minutes getting ready, stuffing Yuuri’s practise clothes into a bag and grabbing the heavy key to the small warehouse they rented out as their practise space, a familiar carriage stopped in front of their lodging house just as they were about to make their way out.

“Oh, Yuuri! It seems like we did make it in time, Chris, I told you.”

“Only because you get up at an ungodly hour.”

Phichit and Yuuri look at each other, before trailing their gazes back at Viktor, who’s leaning out of the opening of the door of the coach, dressed to the nines, perfectly white teeth on full display as he smiles brightly.

“How do you feel about coming along with us?” Viktor asks, his eyes on Yuuri.

Yuuri thinks, belatedly, that there’ll probably be no practise today.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris voice: get in, losers, we're going shopping!
> 
> once again, no idea when the next chapter will be out due to me being swamped with schoolwork, but know it's going to be a long one!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss me with that gay shit (also known as: they're outgaying themselves jfc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a huge, huge thank you to starcrossedsuicides (both on here and tumblr) for being such a wonderful beta. Go send her some love, she deserves it!

When Yuuri was young, his family had tried everything to make sure he was happy. He hadn’t realised, back then, how badly his parents had managed, how when he had enough to eat, his sister didn’t.

He’d been too young to understand, yes, but he never stopped blaming himself nonetheless. He was educated, which was a lot more than he could say for other boys his age, he didn’t have to work—not until later, at least, and he’d been shielded from much of the outside world.

He doesn’t remember Japan. He’d been too young when they left, but from what his sister had told him later, he’d taken the move badly. From their spacious hot springs, they’d moved to a cramped and smoke-filled city to live in a space shared by four other families. The smell of cherry blossoms had been replaced by the odour of living with so many people at once.

Apparently, he’d cried a lot. As a baby in Japan, Yuuri had been exceptionally quiet, never complained at all, but upon their move, he'd started to breathe heavily, fuss about things he never had before.

That only made his guilt worse—knowing that he’d been such a bother to his parents and sister when they’d already had enough on their plates.

His favourite childhood memory had been when he was six.

Mari had come home one day from work, smelling of cigarette smoke (she wasn’t allowed to smoke, but she did so anyway; no one could tell the difference between what was on her breath or clinging to her clothes from the factory), grin wide as she looked at Yuuri, so little back then. She’d told him to go and put on his warm coat and gloves because they were going out.

He remembers being confused—it had been late, so late that the darkness wrapped them up in a safety blanket as they slipped down to a pond. It had been winter, so the water had been completely frozen over, free of any cracks.

“Put these on,” Mari had said, and Yuuri only then noticed the canvas bag she’d been carrying.

Opening the bag, Mari had drawn out two pairs of scuffed old skating shoes. She handed the smaller pair to Yuuri with a smile, gesturing to them.

“Go on! We don’t have long.”

Yuuri looked at them suspiciously. He hadn’t been old enough to wonder where exactly Mari got her hands on something like this, or why, but he had never seen anything like this. They were small boots, the inside padded with matted fur, the outside criss-crossed with lines of wear. Blades were attached to the underside, and despite the distinct oldness of the shoes, didn’t seem to be bent out of shape or dulled too badly.

Almost reverently, Yuuri had put on the skates. Lacing them up, he noticed that they were quite large on his small feet, though obviously a children’s size. Mari’s looked much bigger. Despite not being his size, they felt right, hugging his ankle so gently. He never wanted to take them off.

When Yuuri took his first step on the ice with the skates, he was wobbly, like a newborn foal. The skating shoes were looser than they should’ve been, and they knocked his ankles to the sides at the start, before he learned how to balance.

He stood on the ice, looking shocked, arms spread to the sides to keep himself from falling. He felt like he’d been standing on air.  
Mari had laughed, making her own way to him. She was good—hesitant, but good. This wasn’t her first time doing this, and Yuuri remembers wondering whether all these times that she’d come home later than usual, she was out here.

“You look like such a darling,” She’d teased him, fingers pinching at Yuuri’s chubby cheeks.

Mari had never been particularly affectionate and if she was, it was always in an almost gruff way. She saw herself as Yuuri’s protector, rather than his older sister, and that didn’t leave much room for coddling and being gentle.

Because of that, her actions and words that night had caught Yuuri by surprise. He’d felt lighter than ever, then. Like he hadn’t been standing on the ice, but floating.

Taking his hands in hers, Mari had pulled Yuuri across the ice of the lake, spinning them in small circles. Yuuri giggled, tugging with small fists at her skirts. He hadn’t been scared, not at all, not even when the scratchy fabric of her skirt pulled away from Yuuri and he’d over tipped down, falling onto his knees. He only took in a sharp gasp of wonder before getting right back up.

In the next hour, Yuuri had learned how to let go of Mari’s hands and skirts and stumble around the ice himself, hands flapping to regain his balance every few minutes.

In the hour after that, Yuuri started to skate smoothly, despite his ankles wobbling and the fur inside the skating shoes sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He spun circles into the ice, zig-zagged against the edges of the lake.

“あなたはすばらしいですね。(you’re wonderful),” Mari called to him from the edge of the bank.

Yuuri felt a sense of thrill, as if he were doing something bad—but doing the bad thing made him feel so good. They weren’t supposed to speak their language, would get in trouble if they did, and so they rarely ever would. Maybe they’d allow themselves a whispered ‘thank you,’ or ‘good night,’ but nothing more than that. Certainly never in a public place, even if it was in the middle of the night.

Those words gave him confidence, made blood flood hot to his head. He’d caught speed and gave a small spinning jump.

He’d crashed onto his side, unable to land properly on the loose skates; but now Yuuri knows that he’d never been happier in his life than at that moment. As pain laced up his side, he’d laughed with pure childhood glee.

The first time he’d danced, he’d danced on the ice.

Not long after that, Mari had to skate over and help him up, urging him to untie the skating shoes and put on his proper winter boots so that they could go home. Yuuri hadn’t wanted to, but he also knew that Mari would have work in the morning, and already seemed bone-tired.

“You can’t tell anyone where we were tonight, alright? Not about the skates, either.” Mari made him promise once they’d snuck in back home to the room they shared. Yuuri had nodded violently, eyes wide.

After that, whenever Mari wasn’t too tired, they’d go out on the frozen lake at night.

Yuuri became good—really good—despite the skates becoming steadily older. Soon, he could perform jumps and spins as Mari watched, urging him on.

Over the winters, he saw less and less of Mari. She worked often, and stayed later than usual. If Yuuri did wait up for her, she was usually too exhausted to head out and instead crashed into bed. That left him antsy; eager to skate again and—despite feeling guilty for leaving his sister alone—he would grab his pair of skates and sneak out.  
He outgrew the skates when he was eleven.

He was eleven when he realised just how much they were struggling, too.

Mari was rarely home at that point, and always returned with dark circles under her eyes. His mother was no better. His father developed a rather harsh cough that would make Yuuri wince whenever he’d hear it.

So Yuuri never mentioned skates. His sister seemed to forget about the moments they’d shared out on the ice, and he never reminded her.

He never did ask where she got the skating shoes, and so had no idea where he’d be able to find new ones for himself. That winter passed without him drawing lazy circles in the frozen pond.

The lack of taking his energy out on the ice impacted him. He became prickly, his anxiousness would skyrocket. He was so used to taking out all of his frustrations on his skates that once he wasn’t able to, he realised just how reliant he was on them.

Yuuri never stopped going down to the pond, though. It gave him somewhere to go, to get out of the cramped space where they lived, away from the crying of babies and the shouting of wives and husbands.

That’s how he began to dance. At first, he would copy the moves he’d tried on the ice. Wobbly little spins that turned to pirouettes and balances poses that looked so wrong on the ground, but he didn’t stop. It wasn’t a direct replacement for the feeling he got when skating, but it was close enough.

Close enough that he learned to love it too.

He’d met Phichit during the next summer and, as they say, everything after that was history.

 

* * *

 

“My, is this your dirty laundry?” Chris cocks a brow as he reaches for the bag Phichit is carrying, tugging at it so that he can take a look inside.

“No,” Phichit shoots back, poking the tip of his tongue out at the other man as he yanks the bag close to his chest, the inside out of sight of prying eyes. “It’s Yuuri’s practise clothes and I, as his best friend, have to protect his dignity.”

Yuuri bites on his bottom lip to hide his smile. Phichit is so easy when it comes to conversation—he isn’t worried about saying the wrong thing at all, just rambles on about everything and anything all at once. It’s what makes people like him so much—the outgoing nature, all of his wide smiles and his open face.

Chris won’t last an hour around him without falling in one way or another, if he hasn’t already. Yuuri wishes it were that easy for him.

His eyes had been trained on the bottom of the carriage when it jerked into motion, only rising up when he feels a heavy gaze on him.

It’s Viktor. Viktor is looking at him with a smile, his blue eyes gentle.

Yuuri reigns in a sharp gasp. He hasn’t been able to have a good look at Viktor until now, and despite thinking he is prepared for this, Viktor still takes his breath away.

He’s wearing a dark suit this time, much like the one the first time they met—at Sara’s party. It looks unfairly handsome on him, paired with a patterned waistcoat. The stitching looks nice, but Yuuri doesn’t want to stare long enough to take a good look at what the embroidery is actually like.

Around Viktor’s neck is an ascot tie in a soft pink colour. Yuuri hasn’t ever seen one like that before; usually they’re grey or black, and the pink is an oddly gentle and feminine touch that he hadn’t expected, but he likes it.

The fact that Viktor rarely fits into the drab fashions of the city is appealing. Like the gold accents to the suit he wore to Sara’s party, or the cream afternoon suit he’d worn the previous week.

He wonders how soft the material of his jacket is. Yuuri has an urge to curl his fingers into the lapels, breathe Viktor in. He looks beautiful like this, with the sunlight coming from the window and bathing his grey hair in light.

He _wants_. He wants to lean in and rest his head in the space between Viktor’s neck and shoulder. He probably smells like some ridiculous French scent.

Yuuri tugs at his sleeves. Despite admiring Viktor, he can’t help but feel inadequate. While he’d at least tried to dress well for their lunch (with the help of Phichit), he had no reason to do that now. He would’ve changed for practise anyway, so his shirt is rumpled and the coat he’s wearing has a strange stain on one of the pockets.

Just that ascot tie looks like it is worth more than everything Yuuri is wearing right now, and that makes him want to sink even further into the lavish cushioning of the carriage. When Yuuri is Eros, he’s clad in what looks like the finest materials. They might not be in actuality, but that sort of illusion brings him confidence, makes him feel as if he’s actually worth something. He doesn’t feel like that now.

As inconspicuously as he can, Yuuri tries to move the pocket with the stain out of Viktor’s line of sight.

“Yuuri?”

The jerking of the carriage almost makes Yuuri slam his face into the window, but he catches himself in time, looking towards Phichit with a questioning glance.

“Viktor asked you a question.” Phichit barely hides his amused grin.

“O-oh.” Yuuri curses himself. He’s done just the thing that he wanted to avoid—stared silently at Viktor and made a fool of himself. “I’m... I’m sorry, could you repeat it?”

Viktor smiles warmly. The smile reaches his eyes, making something in Yuuri’s chest clench.   
“You looked like you were lost in your thoughts. What were you thinking about?”

“Yeah, _Yuu_ ri, would you like to share?” Phichit butts in, the mischievous grin spreading. He’s known Yuuri long enough to be able to tell where his mind had been.

Yuuri flushes, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “ _Uh_.”

Chris laughs. “Lets not tease our star.”

“I only wanted to know if you were free next week,” Viktor, still smiling, repeats his question.

Wildly, Yuuri looks towards Phichit.

His friend throws his arms up, shrugging.

“We haven’t had any requests yet. That’s up to you, Yuuri.”

Suddenly, Yuuri is all too aware of the rocking of the carriage, the closeness with which all of them are sitting. Phichit is usually the one arranging all the meetings and performances—not because he’s controlling, no, far from that, but Yuuri had personally asked him to do so. Yuuri’s the act, and if he disassociates that from real life, his anxiousness won’t be overbearing.

Yuuri knows the answer, though. If it were anyone else asking, Yuuri would say that he had to practise, or make some other odd-ended excuse. But this is Viktor. Viktor, who’s handsome and rich, but most importantly, he’s kind. Despite Yuuri’s less-than-enthusiastic attitude at their lunch, Viktor hadn’t said one bad word to him.

“Yes,” He says, “I am.”

“Good!” Viktor looks excited, as if it’s the best news he’s received all week. “I wanted to take you along to a party. You’ll like it, I’m sure. There’ll be many fans of your dancing.”

Yuuri’s brain short-circuits. He'd expected something different—maybe lunch again, or a walk in the park. Not a party. Yuuri, despite having performed at many, had never been present at one as a guest. It’s a little daunting. If he hadn’t known how to act in the company of someone like Viktor, how will he handle himself in a room full of people like him?

That’s why he always makes sure they leave before he may spend too much time in the crowd. Phichit always manages to make an excuse about Yuuri being tired before they retire for the night. It saves Yuuri the embarrassment of having to deal with people when he doesn’t know how to.

“I—uhm.” He pauses.

“Yuuri, you should go! When do you ever have the chance to go to a party?”

“Whenever I perform,” Yuuri reminds Phichit. Damn it, his friend was meant to be on his side!

“That’s not the same. You can enjoy yourself. Viktor will take care of you. Won’t you, Viktor?” Phichit sends the other man a wink, before turning to Yuuri with an encouraging smile.

“I will. It’s not as bad as you think, everyone there is pleasant. Or pleasant enough, I should say. I’d never take you anywhere where you’d be uncomfortable,” Viktor says.

“Mhm. They wouldn’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Chris supplies with a smirk, even as Phichit tells him, “Not helping, Giacommetti.”

Yuuri sighs. There’s not much he can do when three people gang up on him at once. “Alright! I am free, so it couldn’t hurt. Not for long, though.”

“Not for long,” Viktor agrees. He looks a little too self-satisfied for his own good.

There’s enough small pause before Yuuri breaks the silence. “I—uh, I don’t really have anything nice to wear. Aside from my costumes, I don’t have things that’d fit a... a party.”

All of the three other men exchange looks.

“That’s where we’re going,” Phichit says, grinning.

“What? How do you know?” Yuuri’s brows rise. He looks at Phichit in disbelief, before it finally sinks in. “You were in on this, weren’t you?”

“I might’ve received a message or two,” Phichit answers, his grin remaining as shit-eating as ever.  
Yuuri groans and buries his face in his hands.

“So when I was worried that Viktor wouldn’t call on me again and you told me to wait, you knew? I can’t believe this!”

As Phichit answers with a loud, laugh-laced, “Yes!”, Viktor trains his gaze on Yuuri again.

“You were worried I didn’t want to see you again? But, Yuuri, I did ask to again, hadn’t i?”

Yuuri groans. To think he’d just wanted to have a stress free day of practise.

 

* * *

  
When their ride ends, they’re out of the worst parts of the city, in an area where Phichit and Yuuri had never been, since it hadn’t been in their interests, let alone their budget. There are big hat and suit shops at every corner, teahouses and stalls selling treats.

“My favourite tailor is here. The shop is a bit small, but he does a good job. It’s quite the long way, but it’s worth it,” Viktor says.

Who cares about a shop being small? Yuuri thinks. Viktor doesn’t. Viktor probably hasn’t had to darn a sock in his whole entire life.

They all step out of the carriage, Phichit looking around excitedly, almost bouncing on his feet. Yuuri isn’t far from doing so himself, staring at all the bright colours and advertisements. It certainly is a change from the area they currently live in, where everything is grey and peeling.

Yuuri can’t help but think that everything around Viktor somehow has to be colourful, from the paintings he’d seen to his suits to even the places he likes to visit.

“Well, we’ll be leaving you here,’ Chris says easily, as Phichit nods in agreement.

Yuuri starts. He’d fully expected for the other two to come along with them. Even Viktor seems to be a bit confused.

“Yep,” Phichit pops the ‘p’, sending a wink Yuuri’s way. “We wouldn’t want to disturb you two.”

Once again, Yuuri feels the small sense of irritation that he’d had on the way here. He hadn’t thought Phichit would discuss anything behind his back, let alone be aware of this whole plan the entire time.

Phichit gives Yuuri a worried look, realising that his friend isn’t happy in the slightest. He hesitates, looking at Chris.

Yuuri waves a hand, offering Phichit a small smile. They’ll have a lot to talk about when they get home, but being left alone with Viktor isn’t as scary as it would’ve been a week ago.

“I’m sorry,” Viktor says, once Phichit and Chris had left down the street, following the Swiss man’s figure, seeing Chris drape an arm over Phichit’s shoulders, the both of them laughing. “I hadn’t known. I hope you aren’t uncomfortable.”

“No, no, I’m not,” Yuuri rushes to reply, a faint blush settling over his cheeks. ‘I’m not. I just... Phichit hasn’t ever kept things from me before; I really didn’t think he’d know. I didn’t know that he and Chris were talking, either"

“Neither did I, actually,” Viktor says, shrugging. He doesn’t seem to mind as much as Yuuri, but that’s because this isn’t the first time Chris has pulled a plan like that.

No one pays attention to them as they walk down the street, even though Yuuri is nervous. He huddles in his coat as he sees men and women pass by, seemingly so much happier here than where Yuuri stays. They’re all clad in bright colours; the women’s skirts are large, their hair piled up in complicated fashions.

Viktor is surprisingly close to him, closer than Yuuri thought would’ve been considered appropriate. His hand hovers for a second, as if he’s about to place it on the small of Yuuri’s back again. It drops, like Viktor has decided against it, and Yuuri tries to not be disappointed.

Their knuckles brush together as they walk.

“It’s here,” Viktor says as they stop in front of a shop with a jaunty display.

The glass window is stacked with plush fabrics, rectangular hat-boxes, and pairs of gloves artistically placed on the tops of them. A crinolette hangs from a mannequin, tied into place with silk ties. Just in the display alone there are more cuts and colours of clothing than Yuuri had ever seen before.

“Let’s go!” Viktor says warmly, taking a hold of Yuuri’s hand and leading them in.

A bell above the door jingles to indicate their arrival, alerting a man seated behind a large table. He’s small, smaller than Yuuri and well into greying at the temples. His spectacles perch on the tip of his nose, held in place by a beaded string around his neck.

“Ah, Lord Nikiforov. Have you come to make a fitting again?” His voice is, unsurprisingly, wheezy, but his smile is pleasant. He comes around the desk to stand in front of Viktor.

“Not for me, but for Yuuri!” Viktor gestures to Yuuri, obviously in his element. “He’s going to be accompanying me to Leroy’s party.”

Yuuri gives a quick nod, watching as the small man moves his gaze to him. He barely reaches Yuuri’s chin, but his hands seem capable and he’s still nimble on his feet. His eyes appraise the Japanese man openly, noting his trim waist and narrow shoulders.

“Good, good! It’ll be an honour to work on you. You’ll fit the newer fashions nicely,” The older man notes, coming closer to Yuuri and narrowing his eyes at him.

Yuuri feels as if his every curve and edge is being examined, but it isn’t as exposing as he has come to experience. Many people take note of his form— the ones he dances for and the ones who hire him. They all want to be sure that he’ll be a good investment. This is different, though. The tailor’s appraisal is almost clinical in nature, brisk and professional.

“Uh. Thank you,” Yuuri says, trying at a smile.

“He will, won’t he? I’m thinking light blue for a shirt, perfect for the coming spring,” Viktor fawns, his cheekbones dusted with a faint pink, the colour of his ascot.

“Mhm, you’re absolutely right.” The man nods, before turning to Yuuri again. “What are you looking for, then? Linen? Silk? Perhaps a tweed jacket or tweed trousers to go along with the evening ensemble...”

“No, no, I’m only, uh, looking for an outfit for the party, that’s all,” Yuuri protests, his head spinning with all the different suggestions the tailor had named. He wonders if he even has enough to pay for one evening dress. Certainly not on him— he rarely carries anything more than a few coins on his person at once.

“Yuuri,” Viktor turns around from where he’s been eyeing an elegant pair of gloves on display. He comes closer to Yuuri’s other side and smoothes his hands down Yuuri’s arms, straightening out the bunched fabric of his old coat. “Mr Everet knows what he’s doing. This is my treat, for the time you gave me last week. Whatever he says will look good on you, we take, alright?”

Yuuri thinks that he should protest, but he can’t find it in himself to do so. Didn’t Phichit say that he could indulge himself? Maybe he should.

“Besides, you shouldn’t worry about it. I come here more than enough to guarantee a discount.” Viktor winks and the last of Yuuri’s resolve breaks.

Yuuri nods, the small man by the name of Everet taking him by the arm.

Everet draws out measuring tape from one of his voluminous pockets and hangs it around his neck, ushering Yuuri into a sectioned-off area of the store.

“We will only take a minute, Lord Nikiforov, so for god’s sake, don’t touch anything or else we’ll have a repeat of last time.”

Yuuri can’t help but bite down on a laugh as he’s whisked into a dressing room, rich red drapery hiding him and the tailor from Viktor’s sight.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be even gayer. That being said, I'm going to try and get into an updating schedule. Say, every two weeks give or take some, but there's a lot in store for our boys. 
> 
> I'm really trying to stop myself from putting Yuuri into a fancy dress, y'all. But the urge is there. It's so there.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for my absence-- I really don't have an excuse, but school and life got the best of me. However, I'm really excited to continue this fic! This chapter was lots of fun to write. 
> 
> TRANSLATIONS:  
> Дорогой- dorogoi/darling
> 
> unbeta-ed.

“Just undress for me, Mr Katsuki, there’s a good lad.” Mr Everet says, casually, so methodically that Yuuri doesn’t have time or reason to feel embarrassed.

Usually, Yuuri wouldn’t be able to strip in front of anyone who wasn’t Phichit, and even with his best friend it took him years to feel comfortable enough to change in front of him. Most times, he’ll still lock himself in an adjoining bathroom whilst getting ready for a performance, only coming out once it’s time for Phichit to put on his makeup.

Yuuri takes off his stained coat and the rest of his winter gear, leaving on his undergarments. It’s not as cold as he thought it might be, the small area and curtains shielding it from the rest of the shop doing a good job of blocking out the cold air from the outside.

Mr Everet takes the measuring tape and puts it up to Yuuri’s shoulders, then his waist. He has Yuuri lift an arm and measures the length of it, his bushy grey brows drawn over his spectacles in hard concentration. Yuuri watches it all happen with fascination in the full-length mirror facing him.

“You have a dancer’s body.” Mr Everet notes as he slips the measuring tape away. He reaches for a metal-wrought frame pushed up against the wall, full of shirts and trousers of different sizes.

“Uh-- I am. A dancer, I mean.” Yuuri says, carefully. It’s not something you go announcing, but Mr Everet had suggested it himself, hadn’t he? Besides, the man didn’t seem like he’d be all too fussed with what Yuuri did in his free time, whether it was dancing or pick-pocketing, his professional disposition didn’t slip for one second.

“I don’t get many of these around here. It’s mostly the pot-bellied rich types,” The old man says, with an almost conspiratorial smile, as he shrouds Yuuri in a perfectly crisp white shirt.

Yuuri bites down on a smile.  

“Has Viktor been coming here for long?”

“Oh, as long as he’s been here! Barely spoke a lick of English when I first met him. He wanted a pair of buttercup yellow trousers.” Mr Everet speaks of him fondly. “He used to have long hair. I remember the fuss he kicked up when I accidentally pinned some of it.”

Yuuri tries to imagine Viktor in yellow trousers, and can’t help but snort. The long hair seems far more possible, and he tries to imagine a younger Viktor, less broad and softer in the cheeks. It’s a surprisingly warming image.

“Does he do this for his friends often?” As soon as it is out of his mouth, Yuuri wants to kick himself. He’s been trying to entertain the idea that he’s the only one Viktor’s invited out like this. That he’s special. That, before, no one else had been privy to Viktor’s gentle gestures and his easy smile. That he doesn’t make a habit of taking out poor unfortunate sods like Yuuri to give them a taste of the lavish life.

Yuuri thinks he’s seen too much of what the rich are like, anyway.

“Sometimes. Mostly he comes by himself, though. Other times it’s with the tall blond. Other than that, I haven’t seen him with anyone else for quite some time, no.” Mr Everet eyes him, taking in Yuuri’s fluster, before taking off a pair of finely woven dark grey trousers from the frame, handing them to Yuuri with a pointed look.

Yuuri flushes, having obviously been caught out by the other man. Does he really know? That Yuuri finds Viktor ridiculously attractive, that his gestures haven’t gone past him, that if Viktor were only to _ask_ , Yuuri would---

Resolutely, Yuuri tries on the grey trousers, turning around to look at himself in the mirror.

Mr Everet had picked the ideal size, and there would have to be minimal taking in, if any. The material hugged Yuuri in a way that was utterly sinful- delightfully tight around the thighs and buttocks, emphasising his dancer’s legs and oh, _god_ , was he really going to wear this out?

“Yes, perfect.” The old man purses his lips, nodding, almost as if an artist who had finally figured out where to place that pesky tree in his composition.

“Are you sure it’s not too tight?” Yuuri asks, weakly, staring into the mirror.

“No, no! That’s the latest fashion, you know--” Yuuri knows. Viktor’s walked in front of him before. “We’ll make quite the dandy out of you yet.”

Mr Evert comes over, tucking the crisp white shirt that feels heavenly soft against Yuuri’s skin into the trousers, smoothing down any wrinkles. “I’ll have to take this in a little, you have a trim waist, but for now it’ll do.” He continues to talk as he reaches for a matching grey waistcoat, complete with polished, shiny brass buttons. It has a faint pattern, just like the trousers, only visible at a closer look. When put on, it sits just as snugly as all the other items, highlighting that trim waist that Mr Everet spoke of.

Considering the mirror, Yuuri already feels as if he’s worth thousands. No-- _millions_. The young man opposite, dressed to the nines in the latest fashions, surely can’t be Yuuri. Not plain, average at best off-the-stage Yuuri. He hesitates, peering a little closer pushing his glasses up his nose to make sure that yes—the figure opposite him moved in sync.

He’s used to feeling beautiful. He knows he’s not unattractive, per say; not by his country’s standards, at least. Far off, where no one can see his face closely, he’s actually quite handsome in the way that makes men stare and women titter. That’s why he’s popular on the stage. Only his contours are visible, and he weaves a story; a story that’s utterly fake and meaningless. It always loses that charm, once he comes down to greet his fans. They always find some fault in him ( ‘his eyes are a bit small, aren’t they?’ or ‘if only your hair was lighter!’ and ‘you’re awfully quiet, but I suppose that’s to be expected') and he doesn’t blame them.

The Yuuri in the mirror isn’t fake, though, and his faults are hard to place. Even though the clothes are expensive, far more than anything that Yuuri would be able to afford himself, or even bear wearing away from special occasions, he finds that he doesn’t feel uncomfortable in them in the slightest. He feels—he feels as if he deserves respect, as if, if he were to speak, the world would listen.

Is this how Lord Nikiforov feels every day?

Watching him intently, Mr Evert helps Yuuri into a heavy, dark coat. Although its big, and made of a thick material, it doesn’t weight Yuuri down, and is exactly his size. “You’re lucky,” Mr Everet says, as if catching his train of thought. “It’s exactly your size. For Lord Nikiforov we usually must order, or custom-make ourselves.”

Yuuri smooths his hands down the lapels of the coat, smiling.

“What do you say that we show him?”

Without getting the chance to answer, Yuuri is being shoved out from the dressing room by Mr Everet, who would’ve made a fantastic sheep-herder with the way he took no nonsense from the Japanese man, depositing him right in front of Viktor, who had been paying close attention to the crinoline in the display.

“Hello.” Yuuri says, all flushed and cursing himself for sounding so lost.

 

While Yuuri was being dressed, Viktor tried to entertain himself as best as he could. He could hear him and Mr Everet talking in the dressing room, but couldn’t catch the words. He thought it would be rude, to come closer and, anyway, he didn’t want to spoil the surprise of seeing Yuuri coming out all dressed up.

Not that he doubted that Yuuri would look wonderful in anything. Even in his old coat, in his drab colours, Yuuri was the most beautiful person Viktor had even seen. Sure, it had been a shock, first seeing the Japanese man off the stage and dressed so simply, but it had taken nothing away from the sheer wonder that is Katsuki Yuuri. It just made Viktor want to shower Yuuri with anything he wanted, really. Which, now that he really thinks about it, is dangerous.

It’s just that Viktor couldn’t care _less_.

“Hello.”

The second Viktor hears his voice (and what a voice it is: soft and hesitant, but it holds and immeasurable amount of weight when it comes to Viktor) he turns, his shoes squeaking on the floor of the shop.

Yuuri is—he’s radiant.

“Oh, _Дорогой_ , it looks marvellous on you.” Viktor gushes, because, for once, he’s lost for words.

It’s not that Yuuri looks much different—except he does. He stands up taller, his smile is surer than it had been before. It’s a bit like when Yuuri is on stage, when he’s Eros, except he seems far more comfortable. It makes Viktor feel warm, knowing that he’s comfortable like this, in a setting that is so far from what he’s used to.

Yuuri shrugs his coat off, showing how well the waistcoat sits on his waist. Viktor has to reign in a gasp.

“Give me a spin?” Viktor asks, twirling his finger around with a smile.

Yuuri complies, with a pretty flush on his face, turning on his heel for Viktor, looking over his shoulder with a raised brow.

 _Damn Everet_. Viktor thinks, biting into his bottom lip. These trousers are downright illegal.

“You’ve outdone yourself once again,” Viktor says, instead, turning his smile towards the old man, who looks smug, with his hands on his hips and his eyes narrowed in a knowing way at Viktor. “We’ll take it, and a couple of outfits just like that, as well, and a suit for spring—just so we’re prepared.”

“Viktor, wait, I can’t possibly take all of that. It’s too—” Yuuri tries to butt in, his cheeks flushing darker, gaze trailing to his feet, which are still clad in his old shoes.

Viktor would have to take care of that, as well.

“Nonsense!” He says, smiling brightly. “I took you out, and it really isn’t all that much. Indulge me?”

Yuuri’s too sweet. Others are so quick to make use of Viktor’s title, his money, and usually he doesn’t mind. He has all these things, so why not share them? Chris always scolds him for that, for what he calls carelessness. Viktor would much rather describe it as generosity. His friend is right, of course, Viktor muses. Once they get what they want, they leave Viktor and although it hurts, he always soothes himself with having made someone happy.

Although seemingly still unconvinced, the Japanese man finally gives a nod, relenting.

“Wonderful, wonderful. Now, about the suit for the ball. I’m thinking something light. That’ll go marvellously with his dark hair! Oh, white shirt and trousers with a matching cream waistcoat. Yes, that’s it.” Viktor snaps his fingers, his mind already wandering to all the options.

In reality, he should probably leave this up to Mr Everet. He has for years been making Viktor’s own ensembles, and has a wonderful eye for fashion—as he should. But Viktor can’t help but think himself, being an artist. His fingers ache to pick up a pencil, or even his oils, to sketch or begin a piece already. Yuuri would definitely look lovely in the lightest of suits, the white against his tan skin and black hair (like ink! Viktor rejoices silently). He must have a matching waistcoat pattern to Viktor’s too. He can already see himself feathering the design with his brush. It must be gold, gold because Yuuri deserves it and—

“As I was saying, Lord Nikiforov,” Mr Evert stresses, bringing Viktor out of his heady revere. “That can be managed. I’ll make sure to place in an order for soft, brown leather gloves as well.”

“Ah, good. Will you have it ready for next week?”

Everet heaves a sigh. “I do wish you would give me some more warning. But yes, I think I should manage.”

“Thank you, Mr Everet. Have the bill for all clothes delivered to my bookkeeper, as always. I’ve left Yuuri’s address on your desk, so send the packages right along to there.”

With one last smile towards the tailor, Viktor turns back to Yuuri, his gaze warm. “Shall we?”

“Oh, uh, yes, of course.” Yuuri stumbles over his words, but before turning to follow Viktor out of the store offers a thankful look to Everet, who waves it off with a smile on his face. “Thank you, the clothes are lovely.” Yuuri finishes, and lets Viktor settle a warm hand on the middle of his back.

Once they’ve exited the shop, and started on their way back, Yuuri stopped, standing still. Casting a worried look at him, Viktor raises an eyebrow.

“I forgot my old clothes back there.” Yuuri says, a little weakly.

He can’t keep back a laugh. Viktor’s hands come to smooth over Yuuri’s shoulders once more, feeling the nicely-woven fabric of his new coat. “That’s fine. You’ll have half a new wardrobe soon enough, anyway. Besides, if it were up to me, I’d burn that old coat. This one is much better, don’t you think?”

 

They meet Phichit and Chris at a small teahouse not far from the tailor’s. It’s small, and filled to the brim with so many people that it was almost impossible to walk through to an empty table without knocking into a chair or tripping over a lady’s skirt.

Somehow, they all manage, even Yuuri, who somehow can’t bring himself out of his jumbled thoughts.

What did Viktor want? And he must want something. Despite how he seems, or what Phichit might say, Yuuri can’t believe that the gesture of buying him this whole new wardrobe, inviting him to an elite party, had all been just for Yuuri’s own desire, without any ulterior motives.

Men like what Viktor Nikiforov seemed to be didn’t exist.

Sitting down at the table, Yuuri thinks about how it’d just be easier if Viktor would say it outright. What he wanted from Yuuri. Not that Yuuri could offer much– Just his dancing, for his body was his trade. What if– what if Viktor wanted to _bed_ him? God, no. Just the thought made Yuuri grow red. Surely not, Viktor couldn’t. He was a proper gentleman, and Yuuri shouldn’t have these thoughts, shouldn’t have gone asking Mr Everet whether Viktor brought other friends with him. What cheek! No, Yuuri wouldn’t live it down if he sullied Viktor’s name, so he should banish such thoughts before they cause more harm than good.

“Yuuri, are you alright?” Phichit asks, and Yuuri startles to look at his best friend’s face. “You seem a bit red, that’s all.”

“Fine. I’m fine, really.” He is. Or would be, if things would just finally make sense. “Thanks for asking, Phichit. How did your time pass?”

“Oh, it was actually quite nice! We visited a few stores. Did you know, Chris also wears glasses –isn’t that right, Chris?– but they’re only for reading. He says he knows a good place where to get nice frames that aren’t so boring.”

Yuuri, despite his initial awkwardness and stiffness, finds himself relaxing quickly between the conversation held by his best friend and the two other men, sipping on the tea brought to them after some time (not green, sadly. Yuuri remembers that they’d have green tea back home, during very special days) and nibbling on a sweet tea cake.

The tea cake is light and airy, with raspberries inside. It’s nice, but he thinks that the ones he’d had at Viktor’s mansion were a lot tastier.

Then, he scolds himself internally for getting picky. A tea cake is a tea cake, and he doesn’t have the luxury of picking out flaws.

“So, did you pick out something for the party?” Chris asks, looking at both Yuuri and Viktor.

“Oh, yes, Viktor said something about white and cream. With brown leather gloves?” Yuuri didn’t catch much of what the two men were saying inside the shop. He didn’t know, nor particularly care about fashion, liking to settle for comfort and functionality. Although, he won’t deny, his new clothes are both fashionable and comfortable.

“Will you be going?”

“I don’t think so.” Phichit shakes his head. “Chris isn’t invited. He’s not within the art world like Viktor is.”

Chris grunts, faking offence. “It’s like they always forget about the sponsors at these things. Really, I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t want me there. I’m quite the riot.”

“Oh.” Yuuri says, looking down at his tea.

“Yuuri…”  Viktor starts, touching his shoulder. “If you’d feel more comfortable, I am sure I can pull some strings and get Phichit and Chris in. Would you like that?”

Looking up, Yuuri sees Phichit’s grin and Viktor’s concerned expression. It is… flattering, incredibly so, that Viktor would do that for him, but at the same time, Yuuri has his doubts. He’s already in debt to the man, for his kindness, and doesn’t want to use it to his advantage. This would also be a good way to go out just by himself.

As much as he loves Phichit, he knows that sometimes he must be a bother. His friend always assures him that that is not the case, that he never minds accompanying Yuuri to places, but Yuuri knows that he can’t keep behind his back forever.  This would be a perfect way to try branching out, doing some networking by his own.

“It’s okay. I think… I trust Viktor to escort me.” Yuuri says, finally, and is rewarded by a large, heart-shaped grin from the man sitting next to him.

 

When they exit the tea-shop, Phichit catches him by the arm, beating Viktor to his side, and exclaims a loud “I’m proud of you, Yuuri!”

“And I’m still mad at you.” Yuuri declares, but smiles back.

 

The packages arrive four days later, in robust packaging and with a handwritten note from Mr Everet, telling Yuuri to enjoy the purchases. Alongside them, there was a box addressed from Viktor, signed with his loopy handwriting.

Once again, the landlady doesn’t pronounce Yuuri’s name right, although he sees that she’s trying. He pays it no mind, though, rushing back into the rooms he shares with Phichit so that he may call for him.

They lay the boxes out between their two beds, there being far too many to fit onto a single. “Let’s start with the smallest!” Phichit says, and Yuuri readily agrees.

When the lid comes off, Phichit gives a gasp, and Yuuri isn’t far behind, either. Inside, there’s another note from Viktor, sitting atop a pair of soft, brown leather lace-up boots.

Blinking, Yuuri picks up the piece of paper. ‘ _I thought these would go well with the gloves. I estimated the size, but hopefully they’ll fit. If they don’t, send me a letter and I shall have another pair delivered as quickly as I can. Thinking of you, Viktor._ ’ Yuuri flushes, setting the note down onto the bed spread.

“Thinking of you. Can he be any more obvious?”

“Hush.” Yuuri says, studying the shoes in the box.

“ _Thinking of you_.” Phichit repeats, sounding absolutely delighted.

When Yuuri tries the shoes on, he finds that they’re almost a perfect fit, only a little on the larger side, but nothing that poses a problem. They have a slight heel, and hug his ankle snugly. He walks a few steps, finding that they don’t rub against any sore-spots left from dancing in the slightest.

He takes them off immediately after, worried about somehow causing damage to them before now and the party, and sets them down gently into the box.

Next, they both rip open the other packages. These consist of Yuuri’s day suits, all black and grey but not at all dull. These are all folded carefully, and hung up in their small, shared closet.

“So, it seems like we’ve left the best to last.” Phichit says, raising his eyebrow at the largest box left on Yuuri’s bed.

“It does. Do you want to do the honours?”

“ _Do_ I!”

This one Phichit opens with care, eyeing the contents before turning to Yuuri with his hands on his hips, grinning like a cat who’d just got the cream.

“Well, if he doesn’t drool at the sight of you in this, he’d be absolutely barking mad.”

“Phichit!” Yuuri exclaims, laughing, as he comes next to his friend to take out the outfit for the party.

It’s light, as Viktor had said, and the shirt seems soft and billowy, the sleeves slightly translucent. The waistcoat a darker cream, almost tan colour, with gold threading adorning the fabric. Yuuri can tell that it’ll cinch the shirt in, made to emphasise the contours of his body. The trousers are also white, looser than the grey ones Mr Everet had fitted onto him in the dressing room, but no less flattering. Folded at the bottom there’s the darker brown coat, not too long or short. Tucked into the side of the box in their own wrapping are the leather gloves, which match the boots perfectly.

“Wow.” Phichit says, with a laugh. “It seems like you got yourself a sponsor, Yuuri.”

Somehow, Yuuri can’t help but agree.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School is once again starting for me, so I'm not entirely sure when the new chapter is going to be out, but I'm already fleshing it out! 
> 
> Rip Yuuri, honestly. He's so confused.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you liked this. Kudos and comments mean the world to me.  
> As always with my fic, I am up for suggestions and any scenarios you want me to include in my writing. I can't promise anything, but I'll most definitely try!
> 
> as always, any questions about my fics will be answered on my tumblr:
> 
> www.saltycvs.tumblr.com


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